What If
by Shadewolf7
Summary: What if Clark hadn't had the presence of mind to lie during that first, fateful meeting?
1. Part 1 Prelude

_What if Clark hadn't had the presence of mind to lie after that first, fateful meeting?_

_Oh, and NOT MINE. Characters, that is._

_Part 1, Prelude_

Clark Kent jerked his head up and froze as the car came careening out of control towards him, both front tires blown from contact with a bale of barbed wire. He was fast enough to dodge, but he was so startled that superspeed didn't occur to him—_moving_ didn't occur to him. He caught the brief flash of horrified eyes before several thousand pounds of moving metal slammed into him, bouncing him up over the roof and into the water after the vehicle.

Clark found himself surprised at the lack of pain after the impact, but the realization that he hadn't been injured was quickly followed by one that the driver _had._ Clark didn't think—he reacted. He'd torn the roof of the sports car and freed the man behind the wheel before he realized what he was doing, but by that point it was too late to simply open the door.

When he surfaced with his burden he realized the man wasn't breathing.

Carefully controlling his strength, Clark started CPR, pleading with the stranger not to die.

And with a coughing gasp, the man obeyed, hacking up water and inhaling raggedly.

Dazed blue met concerned hazel.

"I could have sworn I hit you," the man mumbled, looking somewhere between baffled and relieved.

"You did."

_xxxx_

_I really shouldn't be starting another story until I finish one, but this idea just _won't_ leave me alone. Which is odd, as I haven't watched anything Smallville for about two years. So I'm testing the waters, putting this out to see the reaction—it's going to end up written regardless, so I may as well post._


	2. Part 1 Chapter 1

_Some scenes taken directly from the Smallville Pilot. No copyright infringement intended. I'm just playing._

_Part 1, Chapter 1_

The moment the words left his mouth, Clark wanted to call them back—but by that point it was already far too late. He'd just…

"God, are you all right?" the man started up, alarmed.

"I'm fine," there was no point in lying about that.

"You should be _dead,_" the bald stranger stated incredulously, slightly awed.

Clark followed the man's gaze to the mangled railing atop the bridge, his backpack still sitting innocently beside torn metal. "I know."

He did know. He'd always known he was different, but there was _no_ explanation for being able to survive being hit dead-on by a speeding vehicle and being completely unharmed. Not for a human.

Wanting to get away from the uncomfortable thoughts, he changed the subject. "Clark Kent."

"Lex Luthor," the man responded automatically, clearly thinking hard. "You're sure you're all right?"

Clark didn't really know what to do—it was too late to lie. So he told the truth.

_xxxx_

Lex sat in his castle, holding a glass of Scotch in one hand and staring at the fire, for once entertaining introspection.

He had never felt like this about anything before. Clark had saved his life with no reason to—and more than one reason _not_ to. No one had ever done anything for him without cause, but this—this farmboy—he _had._

In that realization, Lex Luthor came to perhaps the most important decision of his life.

He would not betray this teen's trust. For anything.

When the paramedics had arrived, Lex spun a tale for them about how Clark had dived into the water after him—the backpack still up on the bridge, dry and untouched, adding to the falsehood.

He hadn't been surprised at the venom in the boy's father's voice. If Clark hadn't known he could survive such a thing, there was no reason his father would, and it was only natural to be angry at the perceived endangering of one's child. And Lex's own father wasn't exactly known for keeping promises, so Jonathan Kent's immediate dislike was understandable.

It still stung.

Lex took a sip of his Scotch and put those thoughts out of his mind, returning to the question of how to thank his young rescuer with something that would be both appreciated and useful.

_xxxx_

Around the same time, at the autoshop in Smallville, a man smiled in satisfaction as the truck he'd been working on started smoothly, then went around and closed the hood.

Motion out of the corner of his eye had him jerking around, thoroughly freaked, only to slump against the hood and let out a breath. "Jeez, kid—you scared the crap outta me."

The boy on the other side of the open-doored garage didn't respond or move, so the man started forward, wiping his hands on an already greasy rag. He squinted, tilting his head. "Don't I know you?" he took a few steps closer. "You look like that 'Scarecrow' kid," he decided. "Where the hell've you been?"

When the boy standing under the blueish lights still failed to respond past a slight smirk, he reached out to tough his shoulder. "Hey, freakazoid, wake up."

And the moment his hand made contact, he was flung back into a tool cart by arching electricity, crying out as he hit the ground amidst a rain of wrenches.

He started to look up and saw the boy approaching rapidly. Panicked, now, he started to babble, trying to move away. "That was twelve years ago, man! It was just a game."

The boy gave no indication that he was intending to stop.

"What do you want?"

The boy smiled, then, crouching over the downed man. "To play."

The world vanished in crackling lightning.

_xxxx_

Clark spent a restless night. His parents hadn't asked about the accident, his father having gotten the official story, and Clark was still so unnerved by the whole thing that he had been more than happy to let the matter lie.

In the small hours of the morning, though, he ended up wondering if he should tell his parents before he left for school. When he finally fell asleep, he slept through his alarm and ended up running late on his chores and missing the bus, having to run to school for the second day in a row and forgetting about the matter until halfway through first period.

The rest of the day was spent thinking about _how_ to tell his parents about… _everything._ They weren't going to be happy that Lex knew.

_xxxx_

Clark got home intending to corner his parents when the new red truck with a giant blue bow across the hood caught his attention.

"Hey, Mom," he started on seeing her, then changed what he had been going to say. "Whose truck?"

His mother offered a strange half smile and a card, "Yours. It's a gift from Lex Luthor," she offered a card as she settled onto the tractor.

Clark started to smile, reaching for the card. "'Dear Clark,'" he read aloud, "'Drive safely, always in your debt, the maniac in the Porsche.'" He shook his head a bit, "I don't believe it."

He returned his attention to his mother, excited about the new gift and eager to put off telling his parents until later, "Where are the keys?"

"Your father has them," something in Martha's voice warned that this was not something to be excited about just yet, but Clark couldn't help it.

It was any teenage boy's dream to get a cool truck like that one, but few in Smallville could make it a reality. Slightly apprehensive, Clark went to find his father.

_xxxx_

Clark found his father chopping sticks in the chipper.

Jonathan turned off the machine and pulled off his earmuffs when he noticed his son, a resolved expression on his face. "I know how much you want it, son, but you can't keep it."

"Why not?" Clark had _known_, somehow, that that was what his father was going to say, but it didn't make the dashed hope any less stinging. "I saved the guy's life!"

The declaration appeared to disappoint his father, "So you think you deserve some kind of prize?"

Clark gave him a look, "That's not what I meant."

Jonathan didn't have a reply and turned away, setting his gloves and earmuffs on the shelf for something to do.

"Look, how about you drive the new one and I'll drive the old one," Clark suggested. "Everybody wins."

Jonathan didn't know how to describe _why_ he was so against accepting the gift, but that he had a response to. "It's not about _winning,_ Clark."

Irritated at the twisting of his words, Clark sniped right back. "It's not like the Luthors can't afford it."

Finally Jonathan turned to face him, "Do you want to know why that is? Do you remember Mr. Bell? We used to go fishing on his property. How about Mr. Guy? He used to send us pumpkins every Halloween.

"Well, Lionel Luthor promised to cut them in on a deal. He sent them flashy gifts," here he twirled the truck keys on his finger, using them to punctuate the statement. "Only once they'd sold him their property he went back on his word," he shook his head a bit, "He had them evicted, son."

Clark found himself incensed on Lex's behalf—the man had covered for him, after all. "So you're judging Lex by what his father did?" he demanded.

"No, Clark, I'm not. I just want you to know where the money came from that bought that truck."

Clark didn't want to hear any more—didn't want to fight about this. It was surrender, of a sort, that he turned to go up the barn stairs to the loft.

He paused as he heard his father's voice. "Clark, I know you're upset, son, but it's normal."

_Normal?_ And all his confusion and distress since the crash came bubbling to the fore, turning into anger. Not at his father, precisely, but—he tossed his backpack to the stairs, followed by his coat, carefully controlling his strength. "Normal!?" he demanded, stalking down the steps, an idea in his head that he just couldn't get rid of, sparked by the crash and fueled by the chipper.

He approached the machine and switched it on, clenching a fist. "How about this? Is _this_ 'normal'?"

And, much to his father's horror, he thrust his arm into the chipper. He held it there for several seconds, metal shrieking in protest, as his father tried to forcibly pull it back. Finally he allowed Jonathan to pull his arm free—unscathed, though the sleeve of his flannel shirt was shredded.

Clark looked at his father, something hurt and desperate in his eyes. "I didn't dive in after Lex's car—it hit me at sixty miles an hour. Does that sound _normal_ to you?"

He read the shock and confusion in Jonathan's face. "… I'd give anything to be normal."

And Clark walked away, leaving his father stunned.

_xxxx_

Clark paced his loft in the barn for some time, restless but unwilling to leave. The place was his refuge, granted by his parents, a place where he was left to himself when that was what he wanted.

He'd never been normal and his parents had carefully taught him to hide that part of himself, for fear of what would happen to him if others found out. He _wanted_ to be normal, to be able to play sports with the others in his class without fear of hurting them, to even know what normal _was._

And that was the hardest, sometimes—knowing what was normal for everyone else.

He didn't 'see' or 'hear' anything until someone else 'noticed' it first, though that was one of the easier things to hide. It was harder, though, to tell how much he could lift without arousing suspicion. Things just didn't feel heavy to him.

… And Clark was avoiding the main issue. He still hadn't directly told his father that Lex _knew._

At dinner, he decided. He would tell his parents at dinner.

_xxxx_

The gold of early sunset filled the loft when Clark heard his father coming. He decided to wait, no longer angry, but unable to shake off the depression that had set in on the knowledge he was so different from everyone he knew.

"It's time, son," his father's voice caught his attention.

"Time for what?" Clark still didn't look up, uneasy.

"The truth."

The truth? Did he mean about the accident—Lex's knowing? Had he figured it out? Well, if he had, it would be one less thing to worry about how to tell the man. He looked up and there was an intense, slightly apprehensive look on his father's face and the man held a leather-wrapped something.

Not that, then.

"I want you to take a look at something," Jonathan continued, unwrapping a small rectangular plate of metal. "I think it's from your parents—your _real_ parents."

Clark accepted the flat metal, looking at it curiously. The writing was vertical—at least, he thought so—and in geometric shapes instead of any letters he had seen.

"What does it say?"

"I've tried to decipher it for years, but it's not written in any language known to man," Jonathan admitted.

Clark glanced at him, wondering what he was talking about. "What do you mean?"

Jonathan hesitated, which made Clark's worried confusion ratchet higher, "Your real parents weren't exactly from around… here."

Clark had a bad feeling about this. "Where were they from?"

His father winced a little and glanced at the telescope.

Clark tried to brush off the implication. "What are you trying to tell me, Dad? That I'm from another planet?"

And yet… it wasn't so far-fetched…

His father didn't answer.

Clark tried one more time, "And I suppose you stashed my spaceship in the attic."

This time Jonathan found his voice, "Actually… it's in the storm-cellar."

Clark didn't want to believe.

So Jonathan showed him. "This is how you came into our world, son. It was the day of the meteor shower."

The day of the meteor shower? The shower had been cover for his ship? Had come because of him? All those people had died, Lana had lost her parents, all because of him!

Clark denied, knowing in his heart it was true, fighting tears of helpless confusion, hurt—anger. Why hadn't they told him?

Clark bolted.

_xxxx_

_Not the best, but it's a start. Next chapter diverges from Cannon a bit more._


	3. Part 1 Chapter 2

_Some scenes taken directly from the Smallville Pilot. No copyright infringement intended. I'm just playing._

_Part 1, Chapter 2_

Clark slowed down as he approached the gate, then rang the buzzer. Not much to his surprise (Lex hadn't been in town near long enough to have settled in) there was no answer.

He squeezed through the gate, not wanting to get caught jumping it, and walked up the path to the house. On ringing the doorbell, there was still no response, so Clark cautiously entered when he found the door unlocked.

"Hello?" he called, wandering through the halls and silently impressed with the sheer _size_ of the place. "Lex?"

"Clark?" a voice called from the stairs, sounding somewhere between surprised and concerned—Clark's turmoil had shown in his voice. "Is something wrong?" Lex came down the remaining steps a little quicker than necessary.

It _sounded_ as though something was wrong, but Lex admitted to himself that he'd only known the teen for about a day.

"N—Yes. I don't know…" Clark ran a frustrated hand through his hair, uncertain what to say.

Lex looked at his young… friend, slightly worried. He'd already decided to live up to the farmboy's trust in him to the best of his ability, but he wasn't sure what would cause someone as… _superhuman_ as Clark to end up so disheveled.

"Are you all right? Can I get you something?"

Clark shook his head, "I'm just… upset, I guess."

That, Lex could deal with. He hoped.

"Come on, Clark," Lex started to lead the boy into one of the few rooms that actually had the dust covers taken off the furniture, closing the door behind him. There weren't many people who had the run of the house, but it was best not to take chances with being overheard, "You're sure I can't get you anything?"

"Yeah…"

Lex sighed, "All right. Have a seat and tell me what's wrong."

Clark paced instead of taking the offered seat, ordering his thoughts. "Dad said… They found me the day of the meteor shower."

Lex remembered that day _quite_ well, but that was a story for another time. "You're adopted?"

"Yeah," Clark shook his head a bit, "They never told me…"

"Never told you what?" Lex prompted upon further hesitation.

"I'm not from around here," Clark grimaced, "The meteor shower… I think it came because of _me._"

"Clark—" Lex blinked, how could a natural disaster be the teen's fault? "It was a _meteor shower._"

"I think it was cover… so no one would notice…"

Blue eyes narrowed slightly—Lex could see where this was going. But—no way. "Are you trying to tell me you're some kind of alien?"

Hazel flickered towards him, then away. "I guess."

All right, so not _that_ unbelievable—not after hitting him at sixty and not leaving so much as a bruise.

"And your parents didn't tell you until _today?_"

"Yeah."

"No wonder you're upset," Lex muttered, shaking his head. Right now, he was going to pretend that this was everyday news—he'd boggle over it later.

"Yeah," Clark agreed again, finally sinking onto the armchair.

It took a while to talk Clark down, but Lex managed—he was secretly proud of himself for the fact. He'd been able to help his friend—his first _real_ friend—with something he actually _needed._

Once that was accomplished, he changed the subject. "So, how'd you like the truck?"

Clark winced.

Bad choice of subject? Lex wondered.

"Don't like it?"

"No, I _like_ it, I just… can't keep it."

Lex blinked, wondering why not, then getting a niggling suspicion in the back of his mind. "Your dad doesn't like me, does he?"

He caught the teen's expression, "It's all right, Clark. I've been bald since I was nine. I'm used to people judging me before they get to know me."

"That's not… it's nothing personal," Clark sighed, "He's just not crazy about your dad."

"Figures the apple doesn't fall far from the tree? Understandable." Lex glanced over at his young friend, "But I don't think he likes that I hit you with my Porsche much, either."

Clark didn't smile, though the comment had been made lightly. "That was an _accident._"

Lex sighed, "Clark, that's got nothing to do with it. I hit you with a _car._"

"It was still an accident."

Lex rolled his eyes, then stopped, something having just occurred to him. "How did you get here?"

"I ran," Clark replied honestly.

Lex shook his head, "Should I send someone to pick up the truck?"

Clark offered a wan smile, "That would probably be good, yeah. I should probably go—my parents will be getting worried."

Lex followed his friend to the door, "Clark…"

Hazel met blue, questioning.

"You sure you're going to be all right?"

The boy offered another smile, small but genuine. "Yeah. I'll be fine, Lex. See you later?"

"You're always welcome here."

The smile broadened slightly, then Clark was gone.

Lex blinked at the suddenly empty doorstep, glancing out at the darkening sky. Clark hadn't been kidding about the 'fast' part.

Well, at least he didn't have to worry about the kid getting home safely.

_xxxx_

Clark slowed down in the graveyard, still a little upset, though feeling much better after talking to Lex. He decided to walk the rest of the way home—a little extra time to think things through.

"Who's there?"

Clark blinked and shook his head, "Lana?" he asked, wondering what she was doing in the graveyard after dark. "It's me, Clark."

"Clark Kent?" he heard the same surprise in her voice, "What are you doing here?"

"Heading home from Lex's," he replied honestly.

"Walking? That's a long way," Lana led Czar, her horse, closer and smiled at him, "And since when were you on first-name terms with Lex Luthor?"

"Since yesterday," Clark winced a bit, "I kinda saved his life," he quickly changed the subject, "He didn't want me walking, but I needed some time before I went home."

"You OK?" Lana asked with friendly concern.

"I'm hanging out in a graveyard," Clark stated, "Does this strike you as 'OK' behavior? There are other ways to get back from the castle."

"I'm here, too," Lana pointed out.

Clark thought that over, "Good point. What's your story?"

"Can you keep a secret?" Lana asked after a few moments.

Clark smiled a bit, though he suddenly felt depressed. "I'm the Fort Knox of secrets."

"I came out here to talk to my parents," Lana looked away, "You must think I'm pretty weird, now, huh? Talking to dead people?"

Talking to the dead at night in a graveyard with only a horse for company seemed a bit weird, yes, but Clark figured he really had no room to judge. Lana's weird was a more—more _normal_ kind of weird. Everyone needed parents to talk to.

"I don't think you're weird, Lana," Clark assured, moving up to stand behind her shoulder, uncertain if a hand on that shoulder would be welcomed. "Do you remember them?"

"They died when I was three," Lana stated, as if in answer.

"I'm sorry," he really was.

"It's not your fault, Clark," Lana offered a slight smile, "Come on, I'll introduce you."

"OK," Clark agreed, following her to a small granite headstone with the names 'Lewis' and 'Laura' carved on it, underneath a larger etching of 'Lang'.

"Mom, Dad, this is Clark Kent. Clark, meet my parents. Say 'hi'."

Clark felt that guilty hurt welling up again—it still felt like his fault. "Hi," he said awkwardly, waving in the headstone's direction.

Lana gave a breath of laughter, "Yeah, he is kind of shy," she said, crouching to place flowers on the grave.

Clark, following her example, crouched as well.

"How should I know?" Lana asked, tilting her head slightly as though listening to something only she could hear. She turned her head to look at Clark, black hair swishing in a soft curtain around her face, "Mom wants to know if you're upset about a girl," she informed.

Clark shook his head.

Lana made a soft sound, then added, "Dad wants to know if you're upset about a guy."

"No!" Clark denied, "No."

Lana chuckled a bit, "He has a twisted sense of humor," she informed.

Clark managed to crack a smile, but it faded quickly.

Lana glanced sideways at him, "Seriously, Clark. What's bothering you?"

"Something my dad said… about how they adopted me."

"You're adopted?" Lana blinked, "I didn't know that."

Clark bit his lip, "Neither did I," he confessed. Somewhere inside, he had _suspected_, but he'd never actually _known_, not for certain.

"Oh, Clark," Lana shook her head, "I'm sorry."

Clark's lips quirked upwards, "Not your fault, Lana," he tossed her words from earlier back at her. "I'll be OK. I just needed to think some things over before I went home, that's all."

The conversation took another turn, then, and eventually Clark saw Lana safely home.

"Thanks for walking me home, Clark."

"No problem—thanks for creeping about in the woods."

Lana laughed, "You realize this is the longest conversation we've ever had? We should do it again sometime."

Clark returned the smile, "Yeah, we should," an idea popped idly into his head, "So, are you going to the dance?"

"Yeah," Lana winced a bit, "with Whitney."

"Right, of course," Clark could have kicked himself for even asking.

"How about you?"

He shook his head, "No… I thought I'd sit this one out."

Lana nodded slowly, "Well… if you change your mind, I might save you a dance."

As he tried to wrap his mind around that, she walked up and kissed him on the cheek, "Goodnight, Clark."

Clark waited until she was heading back towards the barn to brush down her horse before turning and walking away, not having noticed Whitney standing on the deck.

_xxxx_

"Clark, son!" Jonathan didn't bother to hide his mingled relief and concern, not able to work up anger at Clark for being upset, "… I was starting to get worried," he admitted.

"I'm OK, Dad," Clark went to sit at the kitchen table, sighing a little. "I just… needed some time."

"Clark, you're back," his mother appeared in the doorway, the same look of worried relief on her face, "Where were you?"

"Up at the castle," he admitted. Truth—there were precious few people he could tell the truth to. "I didn't know where else to go."

"Up at the castle? The _Luthor_ castle?"

Clark gave his father a reproachful look, "Lex isn't Lionel, Dad."

"He hit you with a _car._"

Clark repressed a snort—looked like Lex was right. Jonathan Kent _did_ have something personal against him. "I'm fine, Dad—it was an _accident._" And maybe, just maybe, the best thing that had happened to him in a long time.

"I know, son. But still…"

"Yeah, yeah, he drives like a maniac. If it had been anyone other than me…"

"Exactly."

"But he didn't do it on purpose and he _did_ promise to drive slower," Clark pointed out.

"He did?" Jonathan blinked. "Huh. We'll see."

Clark just shook his head.

Martha decided enough was enough with the boys of the house. "Clark, will you set the table? I saved dinner in the oven."

"Sure, Mom," Clark moved to do as he was asked, then decided it was time to bite the bullet. "And… I've got something else to talk to you guys about."

_xxxx_

_I'm looking for a beta for this story. Any takers?_


	4. Part 1 Chapter 3

_Somescenes taken directly from the Smallville Pilot. No copyright infringement intended._

_Part 1, Chapter 3_

Jonathan was _not_ happy.

All right, that was an understatement—Lex Luthor _knew_ about his son. And that… that did not sit well with him.

So when Lex showed up the next morning when Clark was at school, Jonathan wasted no time in trying to find out the man's intentions towards his son.

"Mr. Kent," Lex greeted, offering a hand.

Jonathan seriously considered not taking it, but alienating the man didn't seem like the best idea.

"How's Clark?"

Jonathan blinked; that had not been the first question he'd expected. "He's fine, why?"

"He was pretty shaken up last night," Lex glanced out towards the barn, "I was concerned… but I got the feeling he didn't want me to call until after he'd had the chance to talk to you."

"Clark said you know about him."

Lex straightened, "I know you don't like me or my father, Mr. Kent," he turned to face the other man, blue eyes calm but piercing, "and I can't say I blame you. I hit your son with a speeding car and my father… well, even I don't agree with some of his 'business deals'. But your son is the first person who has ever done anything for me without wanting something from it. He's probably the first _friend_ I've ever had.

"He didn't have to pull me out of that car. He could have let me drown—I'm not going to make him regret saving my life."

Jonathan considered the man before him long and hard. "Lex," he said finally, "Would you like to join Martha and me for lunch?"

It took Lex several seconds to realize he'd just been accepted—or at least given a chance. He nodded once, "I'd love to, Mr. Kent."

_xxxx_

Clark got home, did his chores in record time—even for him—and set in to finish his homework, also in record time. Suddenly finding himself with nothing left that had to be done, he zipped down the stairs to grab a snack.

"Clark, son, what's the rush?"

"Huh?" he asked, opening the refrigerator door and grabbing a piece of leftover pizza.

"You just finished your chores _and_ your homework in under fifteen minutes, son. Planning on going somewhere?"

"Not really," Clark said honestly, "Was it really that fast?"

Jonathan almost rolled his eyes. Almost. "Yes, son. Lex dropped by earlier," he added, thinking Clark would want to know that he was on speaking terms with the new 'friend'.

"Really? What did he want?"

"To talk to me, actually," Jonathan gave a slightly self-deprecating smile, "I guess you're a good influence on him."

Clark grinned, interpreting that to mean that the two had worked out some kind of understanding. "Does this mean you approve?"

Jonathan shifted, "He's not a bad person," he conceded, "but he's dangerous, Clark. Just… be careful."

"Lex isn't _dangerous,_ Dad," Clark protested.

"Yes, he is, son. He's got money and power—that makes him dangerous. If he lets something slip accidentally, people are going to pay a lot more attention than if we did."

OK, the man had a point. "I'll be careful," Clark promised.

"Why don't you go over and see him, Clark?" Jonathan asked, somewhat reluctantly. "He was worried about you earlier."

_xxxx_

Clark felt a mild sense of déjà-vu as he entered the castle after having slipped through the bars of the front gate, only this time he wasn't upset. "Hello?" he called up the stairs, in case Lex was up there again. He heard nothing, so started for the room where a strange metallic clashing was coming from, only to stop in surprise upon seeing to figures in white protective suits fencing.

That is, until one pinned the other up against the wall with her rapier—at least, he was fairly certain it was a her.

The other flipped his sword up into the air, caught, and threw it, all in one smooth motion.

Clark had to tilt his head aside at superspeed to avoid being hit, but he was fairly certain it was Lex under the mask.

"Clark?" Lex ripped his mask off, a look of alarm on his face, "I didn't see you!"

"I buzzed, but no one answered," Clark said, a bit nervously, casting a glance to the female in the protective suit.

"How'd you get through the gate?" Lex asked curiously, realizing this was the second time Clark had slipped in as he reached to pull the sword from the wall.

"I kinda squeezed through the bars," Clark tilted his head at the other again, "If this is a bad time…"

"Oh, no, no," Lex assured, moving to put his blade away, "I think Heike has sufficiently kicked my ass for the day."

Clark glanced around the room, "This is a great place," he said slowly.

"Yeah," Lex tugged off his fencing gloves, "If you're _dead_ and in the market for something to haunt."

Clark defended his comment, "I just meant—it's roomy."

Lex moved to lead Clark into the hall, "It's the Luthor ancestral home," he stated, spreading his arms before dropping them with a bit of irony in his voice. "Or so my father claims. He had it shipped over from Scotland, stone by stone."

Clark remembered that, "Yeah, the trucks rolled through town for weeks, but no one ever moved in."

Lex stopped on the stairs, turning to look at Clark. "Oh, my father had no intention of living here. He's never even stepped through the front door."

Clark was puzzled, "Why'd he ship it over?"

"Because he could," something less than approving tinged Lex's voice at the thought and he resumed climbing the steps.

Clark followed.

Once they were safely upstairs, Lex stripped off the protective outer jacket and grabbed a towel before returning his attention to the youngest Kent. "You all right, Clark?"

"Yeah—look, I wanted to thank you, for last night. You helped a lot."

"What are friends for?" Lex asked rhetorically, turning to pour himself some mineral water. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm good," Clark glanced around the room.

"Have a seat," Lex offered, turning back around with the glass of sparkling water in hand, "Clark…"

There was something odd in that tone.

"Do you believe that man can fly?"

The farmboy frowned, puzzled by the question, "Yeah, sure—in a plane."

"No, I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about soaring through the clouds with nothing but air beneath you."

Clark tilted his head, "I don't think people can fly, Lex." He couldn't bring himself to say 'no', not entirely. Who was he to judge 'possible'?

"I did. After the accident when my heart stopped," he turned to pace, glancing back at Clark after a moment. "It was the most… _exhilarating_ two minutes of my life." His voice turned slightly wistful, "I flew over Smallville… and, for the first time, I didn't see a dead end. I saw a new beginning."

He turned to meet Clark's gaze squarely, "Thanks to you, I have a second chance. We have a _future_, Clark—and I don't want anything to stand in the way of our friendship."

Clark offered a smile, "Neither do I, Lex."

_xxxx_

The next morning Cloe Sullivan and Peter Ross were watching a comatose young man get loaded into an ambulance.

"That's the third guy this week," Pete observed worriedly.

"And they're all former jocks," Cloe pointed out.

The two fell silent until Pete noticed a boy in the crowd, wearing clothing that didn't quite fit with the times, standing out with his pale coloring.

"Who's the weirdo?"

"I don't know," Cloe raised her camera to snap a picture. "Let's check him out."

_xxxx_

Cloe found a picture of their mysterious teen in an old school yearbook—"His name's Jeremy Creek," she stated, pointing out the picture, "This is a picture of him twelve years ago," she moved the snapshot she'd taken next to it, "and this is the one I took four hours ago."

The boy looked exactly the same.

Clark stared, "That's impossible. He'd be like, twenty-six today. Must be a kid who looks like him."

Pete spoke up, gesturing slightly, "My money was on the 'evil twin' theory, until we checked his missing person's."

"Jeremy disappeared from the state infirmary a few days ago, where he'd been in a coma for twelve years. They say he suffered from massive electrolyte imbalance."

"That's why he hasn't aged a day," Pete poked at the paper Cloe had just handed to Clark as if the gesture would make it more convincing.

"So… you're telling me he just woke up."

"Well, no," Cloe explained, "There was this huge electrical storm and the hospital's generator went down and when it came back on, Jeremy was gone."

"The electricity must have charged him up like a Duracell," Pete theorized.

"And now he's back in Smallville putting former jocks into comas. Why?"

Pete turned away from where he'd been looking over Cloe's shoulder as she hit keys on the computer, pacing. "Because twelve years ago today they chose Jeremy Creek as the 'Scarecrow'."

Cloe handed Clark a newspaper clipping.

"Comatose Boy Found in Field Twenty Yards from Meteor Strike," Clark read aloud before finishing the article almost instantly to himself.

"The exposure to the blast must have done something to his body," Cloe explained.

Clark barely heard her, still caught up in the horror of realizing this was, again, his fault. "No… this can't be right."

"I think you should show him," Pete said suddenly.

Clark glanced over at Cloe, "Show me what?"

_xxxx_

Cloe and Pete led Clark to a small, dark room and switched on the light, revealing a wall covered in magazine and newspaper clippings.

"What is it?" Clark asked, eyes flicking from article to article, reading more quickly than the other two could even hope to follow, a part of his mind still waiting for Cloe's answer.

She stepped in front of him, "I call it 'The Wall of Weird'," she spread her arms in presentation. "It's every strange and bizarre thing that's happened in Smallville since the meteor shower. That's when it all began."

There was silence for a few moments more as Clark's gaze flickered to the last few articles as he read them faster than the human eye could follow.

"So…" Cloe began, "What do you think?"

Clark's first impulse was to demand why she hadn't _told_ him about this, but he suppressed the urge. Lex was right—he never would have thought about the meteor shower as his fault before his parents told him he'd come down with it.

"It's…" his eyes landed on the cover of a 'Time' magazine, a three-year-old's broken-hearted gaze staring back at him. "Interesting," he finished finally, keeping his true thoughts to himself.

All his fault.

Clark turned away, "I've got to go."

_xxxx_

"You're this year's 'Scarecrow'."

Whitney's voice was most unwelcome—Clark was not in the mood to deal with the jock right now. "Whitney, do _not_ mess with me right now."

He could bench-press the entire football team and was not intending to let himself be strung up in a field—not today.

But Whitney took a step closer and Clark felt an all-too-familiar sickness wash over him. He staggered when Whitney struck him, slipped to one knee, eyes locked on the necklace.

"What's going on with you and Lana?" Whitney demanded, eyes filled with a dangerous light as the necklace glowed an eerie green.

"Nothing," Clark spat weakly, hurt thrumming through him with each pulsing flash from the necklace.

"You like her necklace?" the Jock asked, yanking it off and moving to clip it around Clark's neck, "Good, because it's the closest you'll ever get to her."

The pain doubled, tripled as the cut green stone fell against his chest and Clark found himself roughly thrown into the back of a pickup, unable to fight. For the first time he could remember, he felt helpless—and it terrified him.

Jeremy Creek saw.


	5. Part 1 Chapter 4

_Part 1, Chapter 4_

Lex was about to leave the fertilizer plant when his phone rang with a local number. He flipped it open, "Lex Luthor."

"_Lex? It's Jonathan Kent,"_ he heard from the other end of the line, _"Have you seen Clark?"_

_Clark?_ Lex wondered, "Not today. He's not home yet?"

"_No. We haven't heard from him since he called to say he was on his way."_

That didn't sound like Clark. If he said he was on his way home, he should be home—it was well past dark. What could keep him from getting there? "I'll see what I can do."

_xxxx_

Clark hung limply from the topless cross in the middle of the field, the meteorite necklace gleaming dully in the darkness.

"It never changes," a voice said sadly.

Clark struggled to raise his head enough to see who was speaking. "Help me," he begged weakly.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" the boy walked into Clark's field of vision.

"Y—you're Jeremy," Clark stuttered, breath coming harshly through the sickening hurt.

"I thought if I punished them it would stop," Jeremy explained, a trace of anger filtering into his voice. "But it never stops." He turned to leave.

"Wait," Clark pleaded, "Where are you going?" his voice was steadier, this time.

"Homecoming dance," Jeremy replied. "I never made it to mine."

"Get me down," Clark asked, "Please?"

"You're safer here." Jeremy left, but something in his voice when he'd said those words set off alarm bells in Clark's head.

He _had_ to get down—but with the necklace sapping his strength, he couldn't manage on his own.

_xxxx_

Lex spotted the boy as he left the field and slammed on the brakes, the car coming to a smooth halt. He opened the door to stand up; he had seen that face before—for an instant, he was nine years old, looking up at a boy tied to a stake in a cornfield just before the meteor hit.

And when he came back to himself, the boy was gone.

He turned to get back into his car when a whispered plea came to him on the soft breeze.

"Help me."

He grabbed a flashlight from his glovebox and flicked it on, making his way into the cornfield.

It took him a moment to recognize the figure staked out in the field, but when he did, his alarm spiked. "Clark?"

His friend could barely lift his head, pain etched on his face.

"Oh, Jesus," Lex moved forward, wondering what had happened—and _how._

"It's the necklace," Clark's weak voice made him change his destination and he grabbed the green stone and pulled, feeling the chain snap before he tossed the item aside.

It was only when the glow died that he realized it had been lit at all—and Clark's gaze sharpened, the pain leaving his face and color already returning. The farmboy (alien) flexed his arms and snapped the ropes like they were no more than weak thread, balancing impossibly for the instant it took to remove the ropes from his legs.

"Thanks," Clark stated, moving to dress as quickly as only he could.

"Clark, who did this to you?"

Clark paused, "Doesn't matter—I have to stop him."

With that, much to Lex's concerned frustration, Clark was gone, cornstalks swaying in his wake.

Lex pulled out his phone, dialed the last number that had called him as he bent to pick up the necklace. "Mr. Kent? I found Clark."

_xxxx_

Jeremy went to the fire sprinkler system access box outside the school gym, where the Homecoming Dance was taking place and pried it open with his crowbar, meaning to switch it on and soak the people inside when his name caught his attention.

"Jeremy."

He stepped back a little, looking around the open red door.

"You need to stop this."

Jeremy tilted his head, puzzled by the appearance of this year's 'Scarecrow'. "I don't know how you _got_ here," he tossed the crowbar aside and it clanged loudly as it hit the ground, "but you should have stayed away."

Clark took several steps forward, "I won't let you hurt my friends."

Jeremy sneered, "Those people are not your friends," he moved closer to Clark, letting the teen get a clearer view of his face, "The sprinklers'll get them nice and wet—I'll handle the rest."

"They never did anything to you," Clark nearly growled.

"I'm not doing this for me!" Jeremy's voice rose, "I'm doing this for _you_ and for all the others like us!"

Clark stalked forward, "What happened to you was my fault—I can understand your pain."

"I'm not in pain," Jeremy denied, "I have a gift, and a purpose, and a destiny," he started to turn away.

Clark supersped around him, stopping between the boy and the sprinkler box. "So do I."

Jeremy snarled silently, charging up, and grabbed Clark by the shoulders, intending to stun him into submission.

Clark winced a little, then tossed the other boy off, sending him smashing into the windshield of a truck parked across the alley before he fell to the ground.

Jeremy levered himself up, using the hood of the truck as a support, then sent a jolt of electricity into the engine, effectively starting it.

He climbed into the cab and drove towards Clark, who was not braced to stop a truck at that speed, and was lifted off his feet.

Several twists and turns later, Clark was slammed through the top of a watermain and the cinderblock wall behind it.

Water shot up into the cab of the truck, and, before Clark could do anything, all of Jeremy's stored electricity came out in one violent burst.

Clark started forward, fearing the other boy was dead, and dragged the truck a few feet forward before lifting the door off its hinges and tossing it aside. "Are you OK?"

Jeremy looked around, dazed and bewildered. "Who are you? Where am I?"

Clark started to smile a little as he realized the boy remembered nothing but was otherwise OK, partly glad that Jeremy was all right, partly relieved that his secret was safe. "I'm Clark Kent, and you're in Smallville."

Jeremy fixed a pleading gaze on Clark, "I want to go home."

_xxxx_

Clark didn't quite have the restraint to keep from pranking the football players who had strung him up in the field—he was, after all, a teenage boy.

He stacked their trucks on top of each other, Whitney's in the middle.

Then, smirking at the observed reactions, he started home.

_xxxx_

"Clark!" Lex pulled over next to the walking boy, "Get in. I'll give you a ride home."

Clark did as he was told, too tired to bother protesting even though he knew Lex was going to have questions.

When he got in the car, faint nausea assailed him and he noticed a faint green glow from Lex's pocket. He hadn't wanted Lana's favorite necklace lost, but its nearness made him more than just uncomfortable.

"Clark? You OK?"

"Not really," he said honestly. "I think I'm allergic to whatever that necklace is made from."

Lex blinked—he'd forgotten about the necklace. "God, Clark, I'm sorry—I'll get rid of it," he reached for his pocket, intending to throw it out the window—and good riddance—when Clark spoke up.

"No, don't—it's Lana's… something to do with her parents."

Lex pulled over instead, "At least let me put it in the trunk," he offered as a compromise, knowing exactly why Clark didn't want the necklace thrown away.

Clark nodded, unable to refute the logic in that.

When Lex got back in the car, Clark felt substantially better, though not completely well. "Thanks," he offered.

"Clark, what happened tonight?"

Clark took a deep breath, then explained.

When he was finished, Lex shook his head, just pulling into the Kent driveway. "Clark…" he couldn't really say much against his young friend's choice. Not really. "Great. My friend is a superhero," he said instead, smirking. "Get some rest, all right?"

Clark nodded, "Thanks Lex."

_xxxx_

After a short conversation with his parents, Clark retreated to his den for some alone time.

Eventually, he moved to look through the telescope, ignoring the sound of his father's footsteps approaching the barn, half-hoping he'd be let alone.

"Your grandfather gave that to me. I was about your age. I came down for breakfast one morning and—there it was."

Clark straightened away from the eyepiece, sat without facing his father.

Jonathan looked at him, concern shining in brown eyes. "Are you OK?"

Clark thought about that, about everything that had happened during the week and all the upsets and turns his life had taken.

"Can I answer that in about five years?" he asked, finally glancing up at his dad.

Jonathan gave a half smile and a brief exhalation, "Yeah." he turned to leave.

Clark took two steps to the loft railing, "Hey, Dad?"

Jonathan stopped, turned.

"I'm glad you and Mom were the ones that found me."

Jonathan smiled, then, truly smiled. "We didn't find you, Clark—you found us."

_xxxx_

_I didn't mean to leave this chapter out, so I'm going back and sticking it in--and hoping this works right._


	6. Part 2 Prelude

_Part 2 Prelude_

Lana returned home from the Homecoming Dance to find a small silver box placed on her bed, the lid secured with a thin blue ribbon. Smiling—it was likely the little gift was from either her aunt or Whitney—she moved to open it.

The instant the lid was moved aside, she was startled by several somethings flying past her face, but she soon relaxed, realizing that the storm was made of blue and green butterflies. She smiled as one landed on her finger, finding herself disappointed when it took off again.

She remained peacefully unaware of the figure outside in the tree, level with her window, filming her reaction to the gentle whirlwind of fluttering insects.

_xxxx_

"Is this what you do with your time, now, Greg?" The woman who spoke had a stern expression as she looked away from the home video obviously centering on Lana Lang. She was quietly furious, disgusted that her son would _stalk_ a girl from his school—that he would stalk a girl whose past was so filled with tragedy was even worse!

Mrs. Arkin had not raised her boy to act in such a way—it was inexcusable.

The boy's eyes sparked with something behind his thick glasses and he entered the room. "Where did you get those?" he demanded, voice trembling ever so slightly.

"Where do you think?" The woman stood, her stance radiating anger, "In that hole you call a room." She put up with his habit of collecting bugs, no matter how disgusting some of them were, because it was harmless. But this—this new _pastime_—it was anything but harmless. She wouldn't stand for this.

"You had no right to go in there," Greg's voice shook almost imperceptibly with anger and trepidation.

"You've got a lot of nerve, talking to me about privacy," his mother was nearly vibrating with rage, "I'm in the Garden Club with Lana's aunt. How am I going to face Nell knowing that my own son is going around _videotaping_ her nice?" she demanded, shaking the cassettes in his direction.

Something occurred to her that she did not like at all. "Is that where you were tonight?"

"No," He lied, moving to grab something from the table, "I was out collecting."

"Two disgusting habits," his mother spat, in her anger not censoring her words.

"Insects aren't disgusting, Mom," Greg moved to leave the room, but his mother approached him.

"Look what has become of you, Greg," she tried to brush the hair away from his face, but he pulled away. "This isn't you," she stated, holding the videos out for him to see.

Instead of agreeing, Greg looked up at her with a mocking gaze, "People change."

"Really," she commented, voice changing back from pity to anger, "Monday morning I'm phoning Claremont Military Academy."

"Yeah right, Mom," Greg spat as his mother stalked past.

"No, Greg," she turned to pin him in place with a sharp glare, "I've had it with your behavior," she turned away, "I'm making the call."

"Hey! Who's gonna take care of my bugs?"

Upon the lack of answer, he fled to his room and his insect collection. He flicked on the lights in the cricket tank, startling a few butterflies into flight, then moved over to one of the larger tanks, actually dedicated to the fluttering things, and switched that light on. A butterfly with bright green wings fanned them for several seconds before taking off.

Greg moved over to his backpack, pulling out his collection of the night—fireflies with unusual green light instead of soft golden-yellow. He shook the jar, urging the creatures to flash their lights more brightly.

"Don't worry, guys," he said to his collection, "I'm going to take you somewhere safe."

_xxxx_

A little green Bug was speeding down the road, heading out of Smallville in an erratic, swaying patterns as though the driver were drunk. Inside, Greg tugged on the wheel a little too hard, hitting a bump that sent one of his tanks full of green 'fireflies' smashing on the floor of the passenger side.

They swarmed, biting at Greg, who lost control of his vehicle and crashed into a tree, slapping at his once-beloved insects, yelling at them to stop.

The inside of the old car lit up with a green glow.

_xxxx_

Later that night, Mrs. Arkin knocked at Greg's bedroom door, and, upon receiving no answer, opened it. "Greg!"

His glasses lay broken on the floor, a feeder cricket climbing on them. The shelves were bare of the collection tanks and there was no apparent occupant in the room. Puzzled and a little worried, thinking her son had run away, Mrs. Arkin closed the door.

Greg tilted his head at an impossible angle, clinging to the ceiling with his bare skin.


	7. Part 2 Chapter 1

_Part 2, Chapter 1_

That night, Clark dreamt of flying—over fields, across the land to Lana's, and in her bedroom window.

She was lying in bed, apparently asleep, dressed in a nightgown and under thick covers.

He hovered above her for a moment—then her eyes snapped open. "It's all your fault, Clark."

He started to frown, confused, when his mother's voice cut through the strange half-dream, half-nightmare.

"Clark!"

He snapped awake only to realize he was four feet above his bed—and falling. The hind legs of his bed buckled under the impact, then the entire frame collapsed downwards with a crash. Clark raised his head, shocked and more than a little confused when his mother's voice drifted up the stairs again.

"Clark, we're leaving for the Farmer's Market in fifteen minutes and you haven't done your chores yet!"

Oops. Clark put the incident out of his mind for a later time, taking off to do his chores before it was time to leave.

_xxxx_

Clark and Pete went to put up the 'Kent Organic Produce' sign in front of Clark's parents' stall, only to realize they had no hammer. Pete wandered off and Clark glanced around. As no one was watching, he simply pushed the nail through the sign into the wooden post behind and went over to ask his father if there was anything else that he wanted done.

Chloe's voice distracted the both of them, "All hail the Homecoming King and Queen," she called over to Whitney and Lana.

Upon seeing Clark, Lana started over, Whitney trailing behind somewhat apprehensively—and for good reason.

"Clark!" Lana greeted, "I didn't see you at the dance last night."

"Oh, I was…" Clark glanced at Whitney, voice darkening with subtle anger. "… I was a little tied up."

Lana gave Whitney a puzzled glance and he didn't meet her gaze, huffing quietly as he looked away.

Jonathan Kent almost stepped in to congratulate the football captain when he realized _who_ had probably given the order to have his son staked out in a field.

Clark's hand on his arm stopped him from lashing out in front of Chloe and Lana, so he instead turned to Clark, "Son, would you get the rest of the boxes out of the truck?"

"Sure," Clark gave an odd little half smile and gladly walked away from the uncomfortable situation.

"I'll help," he heard Whitney volunteer behind him.

A subtle backwards glance showed the Jock trotting after him.

Clark smothered a groan—he did _not_ want to deal with this right now.

"Kent," Whitney called.

Clark didn't slow, but the other teen caught up anyway, "You realize last night was just a joke, right?"

"Hey."

Clark pretended to be stopped by the hand on his shoulder, though he wanted to ignore the grip and keep walking.

"I need that necklace back."

Clark felt a little vindictive pleasure in the truth this time, "I don't have it."

Whitney didn't believe him, "Look, it's Lana's favorite, so…"

"So you'd better go out and _find_ it," Clark shot back, barely holding back a smirk at the look of discomfort on Whitney's face.

Clark walked away.

_xxxx_

The stained glass mobile tinkled gently in the breeze, colored butterflies tapping lightly together.

Lana, drawn to the beautiful piece of art, moved to cup one of the lead-and-glass butterflies in one hand, reminded of the fragile living things from the night before.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a voice asked from directly behind her, following a soft, almost unnoticeable sound as of insect wings rubbing together.

Lana spun, startled, and stared at the unfamiliar face for a moment before recognizing its owner. "Greg, hi. I didn't recognize you without your glasses."

He reached a hand over her head and she dodged to the other side of the mobile only to realize he was merely brushing his fingers against one of the hanging glass insects. "Did you know the average butterfly only lives for eight hours?"

Lana smiled, feeling a little uneasy, "Live fast, die young. They're the rockstars of the insect world."

Greg folded his arms, suddenly seeming slightly self-conscious, "Hey, Lana, I was wondering if you could help me with my Lit paper…"

Lana suddenly felt much more at ease, "Samuel West assignment giving you brain freeze?"

Greg nodded, smiling, "Yeah, it's kicking my ass."

"Sure, OK," Lana nodded.

"How about my house, after school?"

Lana winced, "Library might be easier."

Greg didn't dispute the point, "It's a date."

Whitney walked up behind Greg before the conversation could go any further, "Lana, your aunt's looking for you."

Lana offered a slightly awkward smile and dodged around Greg to look for her aunt, not offering a farewell.

Whitney slapped his hand on Greg's shoulder in a mock-friendly gesture, "Hey, bug-boy. Do me a favor and quit tailing my girlfriend."

Greg's voice stopped him as he turned to walk away, "You afraid of a little competition, Whitney?"

Whitney turned back, "We're not _in_ competition, Greg. But if I find out you've been leaving butterflies in my girlfriend's bedroom… you'll know about it."

This time, Greg waited until Whitney was gone before reaching out to tap one of the glass butterflies, "Yeah, well, just remember," he said softly, as though Whitney could still hear him, "Sometimes you're the windshield… sometimes you're the bug."

_xxxx_

"Can't knock your taste in women," Lex commented, offering a half-smile as Clark glanced in his direction, after following Clark's gaze to Lana Lang. The girl _was_ pretty.

"Oh, hey, Lex."

Lex had never been one for beating around the bush. "Clark… what was last night about?"

"About?" Clark turned to look at his friend, "They do it every year, Lex. Pick some freshman and stake him out in the field before Homecoming. It's just a stupid prank."

"Clark, even the Romans saved that kind of thing for special occasions—you could have _died_ out there."

Clark grimaced, "I know, Lex, but right now I kind of want to forget it ever happened."

Lex sighed, but dropped the subject, uncertain how his young friend would react to being pressed. He didn't want to scare Clark off… the kid was his best friend.

The kid was his _only_ friend.

So, for now, Lex decided to let the matter lie. He would try again later.

"Hey, Clark, what is the holdup, son?" Mr. Kent—Jonathan, Lex reminded himself—came over to place a wooden tray of apples into the truck bed.

"Sorry, Dad, got distracted," Clark lifted a bucket easily before casting a glance back at Lex, "See you later?" he offered, a kind of truce.

Lex nodded, "Sure, Clark." He'd try to get the farmboy to talk to him then, "Johnathan," he added, notting to Clark's father.

"Lex," Mr. Kent greeted in return before turning to go back to the stand.

lex's attention turned back to the Homecoming tradition--it was more than just hazing—it was dangerous and criminal.

He would _not_ allow it to happen on his property again.

_xxxx_

Whitney didn't notice the form crouching in one of the many trees that lined that stretch of the road as he headed home in his truck.

A blur of motion, then something crashed down on the roof of the cab, pounding at it repeatedly until the driver's side window shattered and Whitney lost control of the vehicle. The truck flipped onto its side, skidding several yards across the pavement in a shower of sparks before screeching to a halt, it's driver lying unconscious in the ruined cab.

Greg Arkin tilted his head, shrugging one shoulder and cracking his neck at an impossible degree before he noticed something and fled.

Gasoline dripped from a torn fuel line into a small puddle that approached the engine of the wrecked truck.

_xxxx_


	8. Part 2 Chapter 2

_Part 2 Chapter 2_

Clark was staring out the side window, watching the trees go by and absently counting each one when he heard his mother's gasp.

"Oh my god—Jonathan!"

A quick glance out the front even as his father was slamming on the brakes, sending gold-skinned apples bouncing about the truck and Clark was opening the door, jogging to the overturned truck he recognized as Whitney's.

He ripped the windshield off and snapped the seatbelt like wet tissue paper, pulling the Jock out and moving away as quickly as he dared without knowing the other boy's injuries. He heard it moments before it happened—The dripping gasoline caught flame and the truck exploded, the fireball racing out to envelope them.

Clark curled protectively around the Jock's unconscious form, shielding him from the flame which warmed but didn't burn.

"Clark!"

"Clark!?"

He could hear his parents calling for him, but he was still somewhat shocked at the lack of pain. He could smell burning rubber and overheated metal, as well as gasoline smoke and smoke from the very jacket he wore—hear the alarm, then fear in his parent's voices.

But it took a hand falling heavily on his shoulder before being jerked back—accompanied with a hiss of pain—to shake him out of his stunned daze.

He raised his head and met his parents' worried looks, uncurling from around Whitney's unconscious form.

His parents glanced at each other, then back at their son, mingled relief and a myriad of other emotions in their eyes.

Clark glanced down at the unconscious Jock, then back at his parents, a tinge of helplessness in his gaze.

_xxxx_

"Whitney's going to be all right," Jonathan stated, pacing out on the porch towards his son, "He's got a couple of cuts and bruises, but nothing serious." He focused his gaze on their small herd of cattle as a cow lowed for her calf, watching as the straying youngster returned to her mother's side.

Clark raised his gaze from his hand, which he had been staring at as though it were something strange and fascinating, "Does he remember anything?"

Jonathan glanced over at his son, shaking his head slightly. "No. Just that something smashed his truck and he woke up in the ambulance."

Clark nodded, relieved, and glanced over at the barn, where his mother was working on their tractor. "You need to talk to Mom," he shifted, slightly uncomfortable, "I think I really freaked her out this time."

Jonathan dipped his head in agreement, though Clark wasn't watching him, "You also made her really proud, Clark."

Clark turned his head back to his father, a strange expression on his face as he considered how to broach the subject. He moved closer, lowering his voice even though there was no-one else nearby to hear. "Dad, something else happened to me this morning."

Jonathan, uncertain now, gave his son a questioning look, wondering if he really wanted to know.

"When I woke up, I was kinda… floating."

Clark's father found himself at a loss and began to pace away, intending to turn back and face his son again after gathering his thoughts, but Clark followed. "… Floating." Not quite a question, though it was received as one.

"As soon as I woke up, I crashed," Clark shifted, uncertainty and borderline-fear in voice and stance, "Dad, what's happening to me?"

Jonathan glanced at his son before shaking his head with a half-shrug, "I honestly don't know. As soon as you start breaking the Law of Gravity, we're definitely in uncharted territory."

Clark twisted to sit on the porch bench, "I just wish it would stop."

Jonathan turned to face Clark, looking down at his son and feeling a mix of confusion and worry that he had to struggle to hide. "Look, Clark, I'm your father. I'm supposed to have all the answers and it kills me that I don't, but…" he reached out to lay a hand on the teen's shoulder, "You gotta have faith. We'll figure this thing out, together."

"I do," Clark raised his head, "it's just… this is happening to me and I'm scared."

Jonathan watched Clark go, wishing that there was more he could do.

He never thought he would find himself thinking of a Luthor this way, but he hoped Lex would be able to help.

_xxxx_

Lex Luthor held Lana Lang's meteorite necklace up to the window of his office, trying to reproduce the glow he'd seen the night before in the sunlight.

While the stone caught and refracted the light through itself, it was definitely a different sort of look than when it had been glowing from within. The light had been fainter when Clark was only near and not touching it, but…

Shaking his head, Lex lowered the green stone by the broken chain and looked around his office, eyes landing on a small lead box on his desk. Lead.

Lead blocked certain types of radiation—if Clark's reaction was due to radiation from the stone rather than some type of actual allergy… Maybe the lead would block it. There had to be more of this type of stone around Smallville, as it had come from one of the meteors, so the more they knew about its effect on Clark, the better they could defend against it.

With that in mind, Lex strode over to his desk and opened the box before lowering Lana's necklace inside and snapping it shut.

If this didn't work, he'd have the damn thing destroyed. Better that Lana never got it back, what with its effect on his only real friend.

And if it weren't for the fact that Lex _knew_ Clark would disapprove, he would have gone out to talk to Lana about Whitney… to plant the seeds of doubt, as it were. But Clark _would_ disapprove—greatly, Lex thought—so he would wait. He'd try to get Clark to tell the girl himself, first.

_xxxx_

Mrs. Arkin returned home to find the house sweltering hot when she opened the door. She immediately went to check the thermostat without even bothering to close the front door—it was set on 103°F.

She could only believe that her son had come home and was intending to cause some kind of trouble.

"Greg! What's going on in here!?" She started up the stairs, "Greg!"

Her anger built as she noticed the gouges clawed out of the paint and plaster of the walls and she shoved her son's bedroom door open, "I have had it with—" she broke off, startled and confused by the masses of what appeared to be spider or caterpillar silk covering every available surface in the room.

There was a soft sound, as of insect wings, and Mrs. Arkin turned to see her son, shirtless, in the doorway.

Rage boiled up, "What the hell has gotten into you?" she demanded.

Greg remained impassive, "About two million years of intelligence and instinct."

"Stop this, stop this right now," Mrs. Arkin didn't want to admit it, but she was beginning to feel fear underneath that anger.

"I can't," Greg took a step closer, "See, it's too late. Nature's already taken its course." Another step.

His mother moved back, confusion and apprehension written on her face.

"First I'll eat," another step, "then I'll molt," Another. "Then I'll mate."

"You need help," frightened and angry or not, he was her son. She wanted to get him help—to have him be the boy she remembered. She started to head for the door and was cut off by him slamming his arm out in front of her. She gasped.

"Hey, Mom," Greg began, turning away from her slightly, "Did I ever tell you about the Pharaoh Spider?"

Mrs. Arkin couldn't help but shake her head a little, even though Greg was facing away from her.

"It's a fascinating creature," Greg shrugged and cracked his neck in an unnatural fashion, muscles rippling somehow threateningly. "After it hatches…" he turned back to face her again, "It kills its mother."

Everything was covered in white silk.


	9. Part 2 Chapter 3

_Part 2 Chapter 3_

Clark was utterly fascinated. The 'table' appeared to be a representation of the beginning of the Battle of Troy and Clark found himself automatically memorizing where each piece stood.

He heard Lex coming down the hall and waited until the other was in the doorway before saying anything—glad he didn't have to hide his senses from the man. "Hey, Lex."

"Save any lives on your way over?" Lex teased, "You know, you keep it up and you could make a career out of it."

Clark shook his head with a grin, "Just dropping off your produce," he gestured to the table and teased right back, "Planning an invasion?"

Lex smiled back at Clark's grin, though he shook his head in response to the question, "My father gave me that when I was nine."

"Cool gift," Clark commented.

"Oh, it wasn't a gift," Lex half-smirked, half grimaced. "It was a strategy tool. Dear old Dad equates business with war. Take the Battle of Troy," he reached over and picked up one of the pieces, flipping it over in his hand, "It started because two men were in love with the same woman," he glanced at Clark, wondering if this was pushing it a bit. "Kind of like you and the quarterback. That _is_ why he strung you up in that field, right?"

Clark sighed, "If we're in a war, Whitney's pretty much won."

"You lost one battle, Clark, that's all," Lex corrected. "Besides, I don't believe Lana's as infatuated as you think."

"The guy's Captain of the football team," Clark sighed, "The whole town treats him like a god. Game over."

Lex paced to the other side of the table, repressing the urge to point out that if Clark hadn't saved his life, he wouldn't have this problem. The rather sadistic side of his sense of humor would likely not be appreciated.

"Tell Lana what happened, then let the girl make up her own mind, Clark." He'd save asking about testing whether lead would keep Clark from feeling the meteors unpleasant side effects for another day. Meanwhile…

Clark was hesitating.

"You _can_ talk to her now that she isn't wearing her necklace, right?" It hadn't left residual effects from how long the girl had been wearing it, had it?

"Yeah," Clark admitted, "Yeah. You're right, Lex. I'll talk to her."

_xxxx_

Lana Lang had heard a rumor that morning in school. One she did not like _at all._

Upon sighting her boyfriend just after the last bell of the day, she decided to take it up with one of the parties contained in the rumor. "Where were you before the game on Saturday?"

Whitney refused to meet her gaze for any length of time, "Can we talk about this later?"

"It's a simple question, Whitney" Lana nearly spat, her angry suspicion mounting.

"I was warming up."

"So you _didn't_ grab Clark and hang him up in a field?"

Whitney still refused to meet her gaze for more than a moment at a time, "Lana… it was just a prank."

Lana shook her head slightly—that was more than just a prank. "Can I please have my necklace back?"

This time, Whitney did meet her gaze, but there was guilt in his eyes. "I lost it."

"Were you planning on _telling_ me?" Lana demanded, anger reinforced and growing, "Or was that just a prank, too?"

Whitney couldn't find a response and Lana turned and left, one thought in her mind. Get Clark's side of the story.

She didn't notice the sound of insect wings just before Greg came up the school stairs, "Lana, hey, I thought you'd forgotten. I've been waiting for like, an hour."

Lana stared at him for a moment, unable to remember what he was talking about but knowing she should know.

"You remember, the English paper?"

"Sorry, Greg, something really important came up. Can we do it some other time?"

A possessive rage started quietly building in the amateur Entomologist, "Hey," he caught Lana's arm as she started to turn away, "Are you blowing me off for your boyfriend?"

"I'm not blowing you off," Lana stated, trying to keep calm, "I need to see Clark."

"Kent?" The rage heated, shifted targets, "So you'd rather spend time with him? Is he more important than me?"

Lana took a breath and closed her eyes briefly, "Greg, I can't talk about this right now. I have to go."

This time, he did not stop her as she turned to leave.

_xxxx_

Clark blinked upon entering the barn, suddenly _very_ glad he'd _walked_ back from the field—he'd just finished watering the cows. Lana was in the loft. And, crush or no crush, he wasn't sure he could trust her with his secret.

"Lana," he greeted the girl looking through his telescope.

Lana turned to face him, slightly startled by his appearance, "Your mom said I could wait up here. I hope you don't mind," she moved away from the telescope, smiling, "This is an amazing place."

"My dad built it," Clark replied, more for something to say than a wish to impart the information, "Calls it my 'Fortress of Solitude'."

Lana gave a brief laugh, then gestured to the telescope. "I didn't know you were into astronomy."

"That's a hobby," Clark stated quickly, a little uneasy.

"Did you know you can see my house from here?" Lana asked, putting her eye to the eyepiece.

Clark hid a wince, "No, really?" he turned the telescope so it was facing a different direction and finally broke to point out something that had been bothering him since he'd first sighted her in the loft. "You know, we've lived a mile apart our whole lives and you've never come over."

Lana nodded once, "And you're wondering what I'm doing here, now."

Clark fidgeted, "Not that I don't enjoy the company… but, yes I was."

Lana turned away and started to pace a bit, "I found out what Whitney did to you…"

Clark winced and looked away.

"The whole 'Scarecrow' thing and…" she turned back to face him, "I just wanted to apologize."

"It's not your fault," Clark stated. It wasn't—Whitney had come up with that one all on his own. He wanted to tell her to forget about it, but he'd promised Lex he'd talk to her about it…

"I know, but he had no right to do that to you," Lana was genuinely upset by the whole mess, "Then you turn around and save his _life._"

"I appreciate you coming over, Lana," Clark sighed, "but you're really not the one who should be apologizing. It wasn't your fault."

"I know… I know. I just feel really bad about it."

"Who told you?" Clark asked curiously.

"I overheard a some of the football team," Lana gave a bitter half-laugh, "I thought I knew Whitney, but now I'm not so sure."

Idly, she reached up to touch her necklace, then realized it wasn't there. "He even lost my favorite necklace."

Clark knew where it was, he thought, but… "Can't you get it replaced?"

"No. It sounds really weird, but it was made from a fragment of the meteor that killed my parents."

Clark felt a familiar pang of guilt at that.

"Nell had it made," Lana continued, affection in her voice, "Gave it to me the day she officially adopted me. Told me that life is about change." Lana smiled, a bit sadly, "Sometimes it's painful, sometimes it's beautiful… but most of the time it's both."

She offered Clark a small smile, "I'd better go."

Clark opened his mouth to say something, but stopped, uncertain what he _could_ say after that. Halfway to the stairs, Lana paused, turning back.

"I'm glad you're OK, Clark."

_xxxx_

Greg Arkin, safely hidden away in the shower of his own home, turned on the water as hot as he could stand and reached for a piece of steel wool.

And started to scrub away peeling layers of dead skin as he began to molt.

_xxxx_


	10. Part 2 Chapter 4

_Part 2 Chapter 4_

Jonathan knelt on the barn floor, working on the plow attachment for the tractor, carefully sliding each blade into place and making sure it was secure before moving on to the next.

"Need a hand, Dad?"

Jonathan glanced up towards the Loft and tossed his son a grin, "Best idea I've heard all night."

Clark grinned back and made his way towards the stairs when he heard something—a sound reminiscent of insect wings and crickets chirping. Very faint, but easily loud enough for Clark's enhanced hearing to catch.

He stopped and turned, seeking the source of the strange sound. There—something dropped out of the rafters and he had the brief impression of a familiar face before he was knocked flat on his back. Instinctively, Clark flung his arms upwards, but whatever it was jumped into the rafters before he could make contact.

"Clark?" Jonathan called to his son, having only seen a shadow of motion out of the corner of his eye as he heard the thud of his son's body hitting the loft floor. He dropped the plow-blade he'd been holding and ran up the stairs, only to arrive as the teen pulled himself back to his feet, looking puzzled.

"Clark, what happened? Are you all right?"

"There's someone in the rafters," Clark explained briefly, already turning his gaze upwards, scanning for a dark form.

Jonathan grabbed a flashlight and aimed it upwards and indicated that Clark should do the same and the two headed out it opposite directions, looking for whoever or whatever it might be.

Jonathan heard a strange clicking sound and turned to look, shining the flashlight beam into the corner, but there was nothing there. He turned back—and the light landed on a face. There was a blur of motion, a sense of impact—and he was smashing through the railing, falling—

"Dad!" Clark saw—his father was going to land on the plow blades after falling nearly a story.

Everything slowed.

Clark ran, vaulting over the railing and dropping to the barn floor far faster than gravity could account for, moved to break his dad's fall with his own body, allowing himself to fall backwards onto the blades to keep from hurting his father with his unnatural strength.

Time sped up.

Jonathan looked around from his position on his son's chest, then forced himself upright with a wince, turning to give Clark a hand up.

Clark took it and the two looked back at the plow—blades bent from the impact. If Jonathan had hit it from that height…

"What the hell just happened?"

_xxxx_

"I never saw anybody move like that," Jonathan told Martha, still unsettled by the whole thing.

"Did you get a look at his face?"

Jonathan shook his head, "He came right off the ceiling at me. It was almost as if he…"

"… Wasn't entirely human?" Clark half-asked, eyes on the ceiling. "I saw his face; I think it was Greg Arkin."

"That's a name I haven't heard in a long time—you and Pete used to hang out with him in grade school."

"Why would he want to hurt you?" Jonathan asked.

Clark shook his head, "I don't know."

"Are you… still friends?"

Clark glanced at his mother, "I pass him in the halls, but people change."

"I remember his mother used to keep him on a short leash, but I can't believe he'd hurt a fly," Martha was at a loss.

Jonathan paced away, looking up towards the Loft.

"Maybe that's because he was too busy collecting them and any other bug he could get his hands on."

Jonathan turned back, "Come on, Clark, kids don't just leap off the ceiling and attack people."

Clark flicked on the flashlight he was still holding and pointed it upwards, "How do you explain that?"

Jonathan and Martha looked to where Clark's flashlight beam pointed… to a set of slimy-looking greenish footprints across the inside of the barn roof.

Jonathan shook his head, still staring at the trail. "I don't know. It seems kinda out there."

Martha gave him an incredulous look, "Oh, this coming from the man who's been hiding a _spaceship_ in his storm cellar for the last twelve years."

Jonathan stood there for a few seconds as Martha headed back towards the house before giving a half-shrug. She had a point.

He turned his attention back to his son, "It's not that I don't want to believe you, Clark, it's just… I'm having trouble getting my head around this one."

"Dad, do you ever wonder why all these weird things happen in Smallville?"

Jonathan shook his head, "Every town has its share of tall tales."

"Except here they're all true," Clark pointed out, clicking off the flashlight.

Something in the tone made Jonathan turn to look at Clark.

"Chloe showed me this wall," Clark began to explain, turning to go sit on the stairs, "It's covered with all these articles she collected about all the weird stuff that's happened in Smallville since the meteor shower." Clark looked down, finally voicing to his father the feeling he'd had since he'd found out he'd come down with the meteors. "It's all my fault."

Jonathan turned to lean against the stairs, giving a slight sigh, "Look, Clark, if you're talking about fifty-pound tomatoes and two-headed calves, then I've got a better explanation for you—Luthorcorp!" He shook his head, "I mean, God only knows what that fertilizer plant has been pumping out over the last twelve years."

Clark looked down, "Luthorcorp didn't kill Lana's parents."

Jonathan didn't quite know how to react to that little declaration, he rubbed his forehead before looking at Clark, "Neither did you, son. You can't blame yourself for something you had no control over!"

"I know!" Clark shifted, "… But I still feel responsible."

Jonathan straightened away from the corner of the steps and approached his son, running a hand through Clark's hair and moving to sit beside him with a sigh. "What happened to Lana's parents was a terrible tragedy, but no matter how many extraordinary gifts you have, you will never be able to change that."

Clark tilted his head to look at his Dad, "How do I make this feeling go away?"

"You can't," Jonathan admitted, "but that's what makes you _human._"

_xxxx_

The next morning at school, Clark sought out a certain friend.

"Chloe," he greeted.

"Hey," she tossed a brief smile in Clark's direction.

"Is Greg Arkin still the science reporter for the Torch?"

"Well, if your definition of a 'reporter' is someone who actually turns in articles… then no. Greg hasn't shown his face in the office for like, a week."

"I gotta find him," Clark muttered to himself.

"What's the sudden interest in Greg?" Chloe laughed, having heard the mutter. "Are you coming out of the Entomology closet?"

Clark shook his head, "It's nothing," he certainly wasn't going to say the boy had nearly killed his father the night before, "I'll catch up with you later."

Chloe's smile vanished, "I hate it when you do that," she called after Clark's retreating form.

Clark paused, started back, "Do what?"

"Just… shut me out. It's like one minute you're here and the next you're gone," she ignored another student brushing against her shoulder on the way to class, "Clark, you're not… outgrowing me as a friend, are you?"

Clark grinned and planted himself right in front of his rather intrepid reporter friend, "Chloe, I could never outgrow you," he paused, looking down at her face, "Other than vertically."

Chloe couldn't stop her answering smile, "It's amazing how far that Kent charm will get you."

"Ah… now, what's up with Greg?"

_xxxx_

Lex had a bad feeling—similar to how he always seemed to know how the market would turn and which people would buy what he offered or sell what he needed, or how he felt just before some kind of disaster would hit one of the plants under his supervision.

Only this was different… a face came with the feeling, a desire to _protect_ and _warn._

A quick call got him the information he needed and Lex Luthor did something he hadn't really been expecting to do again.

He went to school.

_xxxx_

_I know that it never actually states what the meteors did to Lex, aside from cure his asthma and make him go bald, that is, but he's a rather successful businessman even when he's still a nice guy in the series._

_How does he pull it off so easily? He has more time to himself than most who head that much, not to mention has his father out to ruin him—the man who taught him, by the way. So I'm making a slightly AU leap and extending his 'sixth sense' to anything he has a particular interest and investment in—such as business and Clark._


	11. Part 2 Chapter 5

_Part 2 Chapter 5_

"Clark," Lex muttered as he walked in the door of Smallville High, remembering what his alien friend had said about enhanced hearing, "I really need to talk to you."

Clark, two hallways away, paused on hearing Lex's voice, then redirected his steps to head towards the front door.

Chloe noticed and dragged Pete to follow, wondering where Clark was going as it _wasn't_ in the direction of their Homeroom 'class'.

Lex ignored the stares he was getting—it wasn't as though he wasn't used to them—and scanned the crowd for a certain superhuman.

"Clark!" he called upon sighting the teen.

"Lex, what's wrong?" Clark blinked as the students parted, leaving him a clear path to the young businessman.

Lex tilted his head briefly, "Long story. I need to borrow you for Homeroom—your father called it in, all you need to do is check out at the office."

Read: not here.

"Right," Clark didn't question, instead making his way to the main office and signing the checkout slip before following Lex out to his new Porsche.

Chloe and Pete exchanged baffled glances and watched the two go.

_xxxx_

Clark returned to school armed with some new information: lead blocked the radiation from the meteor rocks that made him sick.

Handy knowledge, that. Why Lex had felt the need to pull him out of school to make sure he knew it, well… that he didn't know, and Lex himself hadn't been able to answer. He had, however, been given a small lead box with the caution that Lana's necklace was still inside.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice Chloe until she pounced on him.

"So, Clark, what did the infamous Lex Luthor want with you?"

Clark blinked, "Uh…" he wondered if he could trust Chloe with his secret… It would be nice to have someone else to talk to… "It's kinda… private."

Technically true.

Chloe was dissapointed—she knew Clark wouldn't betray a confidance—but perked right back up, "Well, I can help you with the whole 'Greg' thing after school."

It was Clark's turn to perk up and get interested, "Really? That's great, Chloe, thanks."

_xxxx_

"I found and article about Amazonian tribesmen who took on the traits of the insects they'd been bitten by, but nothing as extreme as what you're talking about," Chloe returned from the printer carrying said article, "Did you find anything?"

"Only that Greg didn't move to Smallville until _after_ the meteor shower, so he couldn't have been exposed to the blast," Clark tapped the end of his pencil on the table in front of him, glancing up at Chloe from his chair in The Torch's 'headquarters'.

"Yeah but his bugs could have been."

Clark raised an eyebrow.

"Think about it Clark," Chloe leaned over the table, intent on getting him to believe her, "Pieces of that meteor are still buried all over Smallville."

Clark nodded slightly, hiding a smile at her enthusiasm. Chloe was refreshing, no doubt about that.

"The whole habitat's infected," Chloe continued, gesturing slightly. "So when boy catches bugs and bugs bite boy… you end up with bug-boy."

"Chloe," Clark decided he had to point it out as he stood, "you can't even walk out your door in the summertime without being bitten by a mosquito." Well, Clark could, but that was different. "So why don't we have a whole town of bug-people?"

Chloe thought fast, "Because… you need a certain level of toxins to cause a mutation," Chloe came around the table, "Those Amazonian tribesmen were all attacked by swarms."

Clark frowned, turning to sit on the table, "Greg did keep tanks of bugs in his room…" he glanced over at Chloe, who was looking at what appeared to be an entomology booklet. "Maybe they got sick of the view and staged a revolt."

"Well, according to this, bugs have a very short life-cycle. If Greg really has gone Kafka*, let's hope he's not in the mating phase."

_xxxx_

Clark and Chloe picked up Pete on the way to Greg's house, and the shorter boy hovered somewhat uncertainly on the front porch with the others as they waited to see if the doorbell would be answered.

Chloe bent to look in the window, "Doesn't look like anyone's home," she comented.

Pete cupped his hands to the glass to cut the glare and peered inside before standing, uneasy. "The place is a mess," he glanced at Clark. "Remember what a neat freak Greg's mom was?"

"Yeah," Clark turned to go sit on the porch railing, "She used to make us take off our shoes. One time I forgot and she _yelled_ at me."

Chloe turned to look at the tall teen, "Is that what broke up the friendship?"

Clark shook his head, "After seventh grade Greg's parents got divorced and Greg just stopped calling after that."

Pete came over, "Which sucked, 'cause he had a killer tree fort his dad built in the woods."

"It was OK," Clark got up and started to pace away.

"Clark never liked it," Pete confided, "He used to get dizzy just walking over there."

Chloe's interest was officially piqued. "How come?"

"He was afraid of heights."

"I didn't believe it was structurally sound," Clark defended.

"You guys, come're," Chloe called, having pressed on a window and felt it shift. She started to slide it up.

Pete and Clark followed her through the window and into the house.

_xxxx_

"Aw, man, that's disgusting," Pete gagged, even as he took pictures for documentation, revolted at the globs of pinkish stuff glopped in the floor of the shower. "What is it?"

Clark squinted slightly, enhanced vision picking out hair and pores on the outer surface of the pink substance. "I think it's skin," he stated, far more certainly than his words suggested. He grimaced, disgusted, "He must be molting."

"You guys better come look at this," Chloe called from across the hall in the living room "Guys?"

Clark and Pete broke into light joggs, more than glad to get away from the bathroom but uneasy of what else they might find.

The TV was on, playing home-videos… of Lana Lang.

Chloe turned her head with a weirded-out expression on her face, "I think Greg's found his mate."

Clark, while initially disturbed by the video, found his attention captured by something in the corner—like the surfaces in Greg's room and nearly every corner and table in the house, it was filled with silk. Without his superhuman vision, he probably wouldn't have noticed, but… There was more than silk in that corner.

Clark swiftly (for a human) moved over to the mass of silk and reached up to break it—surprised that he actually felt a little resistance as he did so.

A mummified corpse half-fell out of the tear, even so recognizable.

Mrs. Arkin.

"Lana!"

_xxxx_


	12. Part 2 Chapter 6

_Part 2 Chapter 6_

Lana walked down the line of stalls in the stables, tossing hay to each of the horses in turn, smiling fondly at her own Czar. She started when a hand fell on her shoulder, spinning to see who it was—and relaxed slightly on it being Whitney, though she was still mad at him.

"Your aunt said you were out here," Whitney stated uncomfortably.

"How are you feeling?" Lana asked, folding her arms across her chest.

"Better," Whitney shifted, "That's not why I'm here, though," he shifted again, shuffling his weight from foot to foot, "Lana, when I saw you and Clark outside your house that night, I… freaked out."

Lana's anger sparked again at the implication, "What did you think we were doing?" she demanded.

Whitney shook his head, "I guess I got scared," he admitted, "and did something stupid."

Lana looked away.

"I would do anything to take that back," Whitney reached out a hand, not noticing the buzz of insect wings.

"It's too late, Whitney," a familiar voice called from the other end of the barn, "She's mine, now."

"Greg?" Lana asked, suddenly uneasy.

Whitney was less so and approached the other teen, not recognizing the predator he had become. "Get away from her," he ordered.

With one hand, Greg threw him into an unused stall, _hard,_ and started walking towards Lana, ignoring the downed Jock.

"Greg, what's going on?"

"It's time," he replied, by way of explanation.

"Time for what?" Lana spat, fear quickly mingling with rage.

"For us."

_xxxx_

Whitney groaned, raising a hand to his head as he looked around, trying to place where he was and what had happened.

Hay. Stall. Barn.

"Lana! Lana!"

Kent's voice. Lana?

Whitney dragged himself to his feet as he remembered; "Greg's got her," he informed Clark, a tremor in his voice.

Clark twisted to face the Jock, alarmed. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure," Whitney found himself admitting, "Greg threw me against the wall like it was nothing then grabbed Lana," he shook his head, still unable to believe what had happened, "I've never seen somebody that strong before."

"Which way did he go?"

Well, no one could say Kent wasn't focused. "He headed off into the woods."

Clark moved towards the barn entrance, "I think I know where he's going."

"Great, I'll drive!"

"You know the old Creekside Foundry?" Clark asked, voice remarkably even considering he was jogging.

"The one that got hit by the meteor shower?" Whitney returned, breath coming a little hard.

"Follow the dirt tracks, about a hundred yards back there's a tree fort in the woods."

"How do you know he's there?" Whitney asked. He wasn't going to head out unless the farmboy was sure.

"Greg used to collect bugs there when we were kids." There was a strange sound, a whooshing that followed the statement, but Whitney disregarded it as unimportant.

"Look, Kent," he said, looking to put the key into the ignition, "I wanted to apologize—" he looked up so he could look the other teen in the face, only to realize he was gone.

How had he…?

Not important right now, Whitney reminded himself, and went to follow Clark's directions, assuming the other had gone to follow through the trees in case Greg hadn't made it to the tree fort.

He was sort-of right.

_xxxx_

Clark made it to the tree fort well before Whitney could hope to with his superspeed and blurred up the ladder, his gaze immediately falling on a lightly silk-covered Lana.

He made to free her when Greg spoke up from his corner. "Get away from her."

Clark held out a hand, "Greg, I know what's happened to you."

"Well, then, you know that I've been freed," Greg returned calmly.

"No, you haven't," Clark wanted the other boy to understand, "You're a slave to your instincts."

"I have no rules, Clark," Greg languidly rolled his head before returning his gaze to his once-friend as he climbed down from the corner he had attached himself to, "I eat when I want, I go where I want, and I _take_ what I want."

"You're not taking _her_," Clark gestured to Lana's unconscious form.

"Well then, try and stop me."

It was Clark's turn to step forward, "You're not the only one who's changed."

Greg lunged, knocking Clark off balance and sending both of them through the side of the tree house. Greg sprang off Clark, sending him smashing to the ground below, and landed lightly some distance away before bolting.

Clark, not actually hurt despite the two-story fall at greater than normal speeds, got up and scanned for the other superpowered teen, spotting him just as he leapt over the fence to the Creekside Foundry.

Clark followed.

_xxxx_

Upon entering the foundry, Clark realized that this might not have been the best idea—a very familiar sickness washed over him. He staggered, but entered the building anyway, stepping past faintly glowing bits of rock.

The sickness wasn't too bad… he could do this.

It got worse the further into the building he went and Clark found himself wondering if following Greg into a building that had been hit by the _meteor shower_ was the best idea. He was seriously thinking of leaving when he heard something behind him.

And he found himself hit in the back with an iron pipe, sent flying across the building to land on the broken meteor itself.

"You haven't changed at all, Clark… you still get sick around this place, just like when we were kids," Greg's mocking voice cut through the dizzying hurt.

He could vaguely hear that Greg was getting closer, but didn't have the strength to do anything about it so close to such a large chunk of the meteor rock.

"Hey, Clark," Greg continued, "Did you know the Buffalo Ant can lift thirty times its own body weight?"

And two hands fisted in Clark's jacket before he was picked up and thrown, smashing into long-unused equipment. The sickness faded a little—not much, but enough for him to move.

"Clark, where are you?"

Clark dragged himself up to the working floor and into the cup of an old smelting iron.

"Come on out," Greg called.

As if…

"I just want to play."

Clark didn't want to know how Greg got playing out of trying to kill someone, but his attention soon turned to how much better he felt. He turned his gaze to the inside of the battered steel container—it was coated with a thick layer of long-ago melted metal.

"It's lined with lead," Clark breathed.

"Clark-y, come out!"

Clark had a safe haven in the middle of an infected foundry—but the haven was a small one. He had to figure out where he could move from here without exposing himself to the radiation of the meteor rocks. A few quick calculations gave him the answer.

"Give it up, Clark!" Greg called from yet another new vantage point as he searched the foundry for his onetime friend, "You can't fight natural law! Only the strong survive."

And he was within Clark's little safe haven.

Clark stood up behind Greg and caught him by the jacket as he turned, forcing his back up against the overturned smelting iron.

"Did you truly think you could hide from me?" Greg mocked, not realizing that he was no longer the strongest creature in the foundry.

Clark slammed the insectiod up against a concrete block, which obligingly cracked, then threw Greg across the foundry, where he skidded to a halt against a steel crane.

The other, enraged, grabbed onto a chain hanging from the crane and accidentally hit a lever.

"Greg, watch out!" Even with superspeed—which he didn't have across the open part of the foundry due to the meteor rock—Clark wouldn't be able to make it in time.

A heavy steel scoop crashed down on top of the other boy, smashing flat against the floor.

Clark stopped and stared for a moment, then a swarm of little beetle-like creatures raced out from under the metal.

Clark stood for a moment more, then turned and left, intending to check on Lana.

By the time he got back to the tree house, Whitney had already freed her and was leading her to his truck, one arm wrapped supportively around her waist and her head resting against his shoulder.

Clark waited for a few moments more—until he was certain from her breathing that she was all right—and vanished in a blur of motion.

That night, Clark returned Lana's necklace… anonymously.

_xxxx_


	13. Part 3 Prelude

_Part 3 Prelude_

The rain poured down in sheets, limiting visibility to a few yards despite the lights shone on the football field that night. Puddles turned the field to near-marsh, the soft ground causing players to slip and skid as cleats tore out of soaked earth… and a pass was faltered, not thrown. The quarterback was taken down by three members of the opposing team.

The Smallville Crow's coach threw his hat to the ground with an outraged cry that was swallowed by the heavy patter of raindrops hitting the ground. "Whitney! Get over here!" he shouted, but whether from anger or to be heard over the rain was unclear. "Refresh my memory! Didn't I just send a pass play in, there!?"

"The rain's coming down so hard I couldn't see if Donner was open, so I figured I'd—" he was cut off as the older man grabbed the metal bars of his helmet's face-shield and pulled his head down even with the chest of the red coach's jacket.

"What does it say on my jacket?" he demanded.

"Coach!" Whitney replied.

"That's right, Coach. Football is not a democracy and you will do as I say, because I know what's best for you! Now, look, son, we have run this play a hundred times in practice. You don't have to see Donner to know where he is! Just throw it!" his tone gentled slightly as his star player cringed, "Now, I want you to go out there and I want you to run the same play. I want you to win this game for us, OK?"

Whitney nodded once in the face of his coach's vehemence and the man nodded back. "Go ahead."

Whitney obeyed.

Two lines of football players collided as the quarterback jogged backwards, readying a throw—hesitating as he lost sight of his target—dodged a tackle, and pitched the ball with all his might. Another tackle got him, but the throw was true and Donner caught it in a sideways fall that sent a huge splash up from where he hit soaked ground… past the goal line.

The Smallville Crows had won again.

Coach Walt cheered with half the stands and the entirety of his football team.

_xxxx_

The doors of the locker room burst open to admit still-cheering football players, high on the fresh win despite the fact that the lot of them were covered in a mix of mud, sweat, and rainwater. Helmets were banged against lockers, backslaps and high-fives exchanged before Coach Walt managed to get the group to quiet down a bit.

"All right, listen up!" he called into the din, which dimmed a bit in response. "There is another team out there eating Crow tonight, gentlemen!"

The team cheered.

"I don't have to tell you how important next Friday night's game is," Walt continued once the noise level died a bit.

Whitney, quarterback and team Captain, stepped in. "Not only is it gonna put us in the state championship, but it'll be Coach Walt's 200th win!" He held out a fit, "Coach Walt! Coach Walt!"

The rest of the football team joined the chant.

"Coach Walt!"

_xxxx_

The plaque on the outside of the sauna stated "Walt's Private Sweatbox" in bold letters, with smaller writing saying "From the alumni association in recognition of twenty years of dedicated service"

Inside, the man himself poured a ladleful of water over heated rocks, not noticing the faint green tinge to the rising steam as he inhaled gratefully and went over to sit on the bench with a towel draped over his shoulders and another wrapped around his waist. He leaned back and closed his eyes, contentedly settling to rest in the heated room.

Coach Walt was by no means a small man. While a few of his football players—and Clark Kent—were taller than him, he was built like an ox—heavy-set and powerful. He was no longer in his prime, but didn't need to be in order to have an intimidating physique.

And he was a man used to getting his way. Few went against the coach of the Smallville team, as it was the little town's one real claim to glory—aside from a fertilizer plant, some cornfields, and a meteor shower that a few would rather not remember.

For now, things were going well. His team had won again and Friday's game was looking to be in the bag.

A knock on the sauna's door interrupted his reverie. "Come on in," he called languidly.

Upon the door's opening, he recognized the distinctly Asian features and impeccable dress of the man who didn't actually step inside. "Principal Kwan," he greeted, "What brings you to the sweatbox?"

"We've got a problem, Coach," the principal stated, not bothering wasting words.

_xxxx_

"Cheating, huh? My boys?" the man did his best to sound disbelieving. He was—Cheating was one thing, but getting caught entirely another.

Principal Kwan nodded, "Seven of them, on their math midterm," the man stood, turning to look at the coach wrapped in a red robe, "Which means they're ineligible for next Friday's game."

They couldn't be _seven players down _for that game! It nearly guaranteed a loss! "Well, just keep it quiet for a couple of weeks," Walt ordered absently, used to preferential treatment from the previous principal, who had only been replaced that year, "and we'll deal with it in the off-season."

Kwan was not impressed, "I'm not sweeping a major academic breach under the carpet so you can win a game."

Walt chuckled in disbelief, "You've been here, what, six months? I've been here twenty-five years. We're not talking about _just_ a game. We're talking about my legacy."

Even less impressed by the man's attempt at deceit, Kwan responded, "I don't care about your legacy. I'm here to educate young people."

Walt's voice rose in impotent rage, "I've been educating young people all my life! You know how many boys have gone on to college because of me?" he demanded, "Have gotten good jobs, on _my_ recommendations?"

"I know most people think you walk on water, Coach," Kwan acknowledged, unruffled, "I think you're dangerous. I've seen your temper. I've seen your methods. Just because you win doesn't make you right." Kwan turned to leave the room, "On Monday I'm suspending the players. End of story."

He left.

Behind him, Walt's rage grew, shifted, heated. He spun, slashing a towel down across his desk with an enraged shout of denial—and the desk burst into flame, quickly followed by the model football field behind it.

Walt stared in shock, rage spent… for the moment.

_xxxx_


	14. Part 3 Chapter 1

_Part 3 Chapter 1_

"Football, sport or abuse?" Clark read the headline aloud as he walked towards the school building with Pete and Chloe.

"So what do you think?" Chloe asked.

Clark cocked an eyebrow in her direction, glancing pointedly at the cup in her hand, "I think you need to seriously decrease your cappuccino dependency."

Chloe laughed briefly in response to the quip, then returned her attention to her article, "Pete thinks I'm being too hard on Coach Walt."

"I mean," Pete gestured with one hand, "The man coached my dad, all my brothers… He used to come over and watch the Super Bowl."

Chloe gave Pete a slightly odd look, "While I'm touched by that Hallmark moment, you don't get points for subtlety in journalism." She grinned, "I've already started getting hate mail."

Clark cast the girl a sidelong glance as the small group crossed the parking lot, "You seem very happy about that. Why?"

"Because it means I'm hitting a nerve," Chloe explained. "Besides, between the abysmal sentence structure and the generous use of obscenities… I've got a pretty good idea of who's been sending it."

Pete clapped a friendly hand to Chloe's shoulder, "If you think my teammates are reading the Torch, you're giving them _way_ too much credit."

Clark dodged another student as a heated argument caught his attention.

"Don't you even care about this?" Lana's voice demanded.

"I don't see what the big deal is," Whitney's replied.

"You don't think it's a big deal?" Lana gave a frustrated nod, "I think it's a big deal," she turned away from her boyfriend and staled past Clark's group, stance radiating anger, red cheerleading outfit only adding to the effect.

"Oooh," Chloe commented, "There's something you don't see every day. A pom-pom meltdown," she giggled, then spotted the football team's disgraced members, "Ooh, here they come. I need a picture of the cheating jockstraps."

Pete obediently moved to hand Chloe the camera while Clark listened in on what the Coach was saying.

"I don't want to hear any rumors going around, any false accusations."

He tilted his head, glanced at Chloe, "Any idea how they got that midterm?"

Chloe gave a brief shake of her head as she leveled her digital camera in the direction of the gathered team and cheerleader squad. "Still a mystery, but I'm working on it."

"We've got a problem," the Coach continued.

"Hey, what's she doing?" one of the team spotted Chloe's camera flash and pitched a football at her face.

Instinctively, Clark reached out one hand and caught it before it could make contact, stopping the fast-moving ball inches from Chloe's nose.

"Nice catch," Pete congratulated.

"One of your teammates attempts to assassinate me and all you can say is 'nice catch'?" Chloe demanded, turning to leave.

Pete bounced after her, "Hey, I thought you _wanted_ to hit a nerve."

Irritated and thinking no one was paying attention, Clark threw the ball back at the boy who had thrown it at Chloe, harder than was strictly necessary. The air left that boy's lungs with a satisfying _whoosh_ and Clark turned away, not noticing the coach's speculative gaze following him.

_xxxx_

Clark paused next to Pete as the shorter boy picked out what he wanted from one of the school vending machines when he noticed the Coach approaching.

"Hey, Kent. I saw your arm out there," Coach Walt stated, "The technique was lousy, but you've got a lot of power."

One of Clark's dreams had always been to be on the football team, so he couldn't quite stop his smile. "Thanks."

"So why aren't you on our team?"

Clark hesitated, "My dad needs me on the farm."

"Well, your school needs you on the field," Walt retorted. "We've got a big game Friday night. We're short players." He raised a hand slightly, "Look, look, I know your dad would understand."

Clark tilted his head briefly, "He's kind of stubborn."

"Yeah, I remember," Coach Walt shook his head, almost fondly, "Jonathan Kent was one of the best athletes I ever coached. A lot of God-given talent," he pointed at Clark's chest, "It's in your genes, Kent."

Clark shrugged, "Actually, I'm adopted."

Pete struggled to smother a snicker as he watched.

Walt tried one last tactic, "Look, I'm giving you a chance to be a part of something special. A part of _history._ Now, I've seen you stare at your father's picture in that trophy case," he gestured in the appropriate direction and Clark followed the movement. "Don't tell me you don't want to be a part of this," he spoke through gritted teeth at the last, "Now, why don't you suit up?"

At Clark's continuing hesitation, Walt slapped Pete's chest, "Look at Ross," he ordered, "He doesn't have a lick of natural talent, but he's got a truckload of heart."

Pete rubbed at his chest, "Thanks, I guess," he muttered.

"Let me think about it," Clark stalled.

"Fordman, get over here," Coach Walt called out.

Whitney obeyed, bringing Lana with him.

"Hey, Clark," the girl greeted.

"Fordman, you're the team captain," Walt pointed out, "How do you think Kent here would do on the field? I mean, considering our current predicament."

Whitney looked Clark up and down, then nodded slightly, "He might do all right."

"He seems afraid, though," Walt taunted.

"That's not the reason, is it, Clark?" Lana asked, defending him.

"It's my dad," Clark began before the Coach cut him off.

"Kent." Walt moved into Clark's personal space, "There comes a time when you've got to step out of your father's shadow and be your own man. Now, what do you say?"

"Are you ready to be your own man?"

Clark hesitated a moment more, glanced at Lana, and caved. "Count me in."

"Good. I will see you at practice today. 3:00. Don't be late," he added as he left.

"Hey, Clark. Hey," Pete caught his friend's attention, "Remind me what your dad said the last time you asked him to play."

"He said no," Clark admitted, knowing all the reasons this was a bad idea.

"He said no," Pete repeated, "That's what I thought." Pete nodded to himself, then slapped a hand to Clark's shoulder, "Call me when the hurting's done, OK?"

_xxxx_

"So, are we OK?" Whitney asked Lana.

"This isn't about us," she stated firmly.

"The guys made a mistake, I don't see the big deal."

"Whitney, they cheated," Lana shook her head, "I don't know how you can support them."

Whitney reached out to stop his girlfriend with a gentle hand, "Because they're my friends and they used to be yours. Do you want to tell me what's really going on, here?"

Lana looked down, "It's just that the things I thought I knew for sure don't seem so certain anymore."

"I don't understand," Whitney confessed.

"I know how much you love football," Lana looked back up to meet Whitney's gaze, "and you're great at it and I support you." She tilted her head a bit, "I want to find something _I'm_ great at."

_xxxx_

"Wait a minute," Jonathan Kent finished tightening a bolt on a piece of farm machinery and straightened to glance at his son, "What do you mean, you _had_ to say yes?"

"Coach Walt didn't give me a choice," Clark turned to lean against the small tractor—like engine.

Jonathan barked a laugh, "Let me guess. Did he give you the 'be your own man' speech?" he shook his head upon Clark's glance down. "Walt's been giving that speech for twenty-five years. Same one. Believe me, I know."

Jonathan took off his work gloves and slapped them down on a wooden shelf as he started to walk away, "You've gotta go there tomorrow and tell him you can't play." He hated to do this to Clark again, but it was so dangerous…

"Dad, please don't make me do that," Clark turned to follow his father.

"Son, I'm sorry, we've already had this conversation," he spoke abruptly, angered by his own helplessness in the situation as he wiped his hands on a rag, though they didn't need it.

Frustrated and more than a little upset, Clark sniped back, "It's never been a conversation. I _can_ be careful and you don't trust me."

That stung. Moreso because there was a slight ring of truth to it—was that why this was such a sore point with Clark? He felt they didn't trust him? He started back towards the machinery on the other side of the barn, needing to move.

"Of course I trust you Clark, but—"

"But what?" Clark followed again, "I'm old enough to make my own decisions."

That wasn't it. "When you're out on the field, a million things can happen that can affect your judgment." Jonathan knew that one from personal experience. "If you get angry for just a second…" Jonathan had done something he wasn't proud of out of anger on that field, once. "Or you try to impress some girl with a fancy move…" he shook his head slightly, "…somebody could get seriously hurt out there."

He sighed slightly, "You were meant for much more important things than winning football games, Clark."

Clark kept his voice soft, but his words held no less frustration because of it, "I'm sick of being _punished_ because I have these gifts. Most parents would be _happy_ if their son could be the star of the football team."

Jonathan reached out a hand and laid it on Clark's shoulder, "Son, I am happy when you wake up in the morning. Now, I don't need to live vicariously through your achievements."

Clark was beginning to get more than just frustrated, "Why would you? You got to play."

Ouch. Jonathan mentally winced, but he wasn't going to give in. "I'm not signing the permission slip, Clark."

"You don't have to," Clark replied, something strange in his voice. "I'm playing football and you can't stop me."

_xxxx_

"Your dad's right about one thing, Clark," Lex admitted after Clark had told him what was going on, "You need to be careful. But if playing football means that much to you…" he tilted his head in a half-shrug, "Go for it."

Clark's answering smile had the billionaire's son fighting a grin. "Thanks, Lex."

"Now, you'd better get to practice," Lex warned. "It's almost three."

Oops. Clark grinned again, "See you later!"

_xxxx_

Lex shook his head fondly as Clark vanished, then finished his glass of water and turned to go to his office, towel still hung over his neck from the aftermath of his most recent fencing lesson. He noticed three men standing in the room as he entered—or, rather, three of his father's stooges.

"Well, if it isn't the Three Wise Men," he commented, "Hello, Dominic."

"I'm assuming you're running late because you've been in a fencing lesson," Dominic, a short-haired man slightly taller than Lex himself, stated. "…or have you taken up polo again?"

Lex stifled a laugh, turning it into a sort of incredulous chuckle, "I'm not running late," he pointed out. "I cancelled this meeting, if you'd recall."

"Your father insisted that we drive down here and keep it."

Lex picked up a blue sports-drink bottle and took a sip, hiding a grimace at the taste—but he needed the quick fix of electrolytes after _that_ workout. "And when he barks, you jump," he mocked.

"Have you seen the quarterly numbers?" Dominic asked.

"Yes I have," Lex crossed the room to grab a pool cue, "They're twenty percent below projections."

"And your father wants you to take drastic action."

"I plan to," Lex replied, chalking the end of his cue far more carefully than was needed.

"Good," Dominic stated. "Then I can inform him that you'll be cutting your work force."

Lex set the square of blue chalk aside, "On the contrary," he commented, almost idly, as he crossed over to the pool table, "You can inform him that I plan on increasing my work force." Clark would approve.

"By how much?" Dominic's eyes had widened.

"Twenty percent," Lex smothered his grin at the other man's expression, keeping his face serious.

Dominic laughed briefly, "Lex, I've always enjoyed your unique sense of humor," he shook himself, "but you can't be serious."

Lex glanced up from where he was aiming, "You've got to _spend_ money to make money, Dominic," now he was serious, "If we increase productivity and marketing while our competitors retreat, when the sector bounces back, we'll corner the market." He took his shot and made the corner pocket.

"Your father sent you to Smallville to turn the plant around!" Dominic's voice rose to a shout, his slight accent growing more pronounced in his agitation.

Lex straightened and walked over to the man, "My father sent me to Smallville because he'd rather surround himself with drones," he shot a pointed glance in the direction of the two still standing silently at the door, "than people who challenge his archaic business practices."

"I'll be certain to tell him that," Dominic intended it as a threat.

"Please do," Lex requested, actually sounding polite. "Now, this meeting is adjourned."

Lex waited until the other man was halfway to the door before tossing one final barb, "By the way, Dominic… tell your sister I said 'hi'."

Dominic snarled silently as he left.

_xxxx_

Lana glanced up from folding her cheerleading uniform at a knock on her door, watching as it opened to admit her aunt.

"Lana, you're home early," there was a trace of concern in the dark-haired woman's voice, "Did they cancel cheerleading practice?"

"Sort of," Lana placed the uniform in the cardboard box on her bed and reached for her red pom-poms, "I quit."

The concern grew more pronounced, "You loved being on the squad… what happened?"

"I just think there's more to life than memorizing cheers and shaking pom-poms," she offered a smile, but it felt forced. There was more to it than that, but that was the gist.

Concern turned to confusion, "You just decided this out of the blue?"

Lana glanced down, then back at her aunt. "Some of the football players were caught cheating. Guys I know. I told Whitney how upset it made me," she shook her head, "He said it was no big deal. That people aren't perfect."

She picked up the box and carried it over to her closet, still speaking, "I thought, 'Why am I doing this, wearing a fake smile and a stupid outfit for people who would do anything to win a game?"

Nell sat on Lana's bed, "Well, you can't let a couple of bad apples spoil the experience," she stated, hoping Lana would change her mind again and go back to cheerleading. "You're part of a team, you're making friends."

"Aunt Nell, I don't want to go back," she smiled gently, "I want to try different things. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Nell shook her head a bit, "It's just that you're on a good track. I want you to be happy." She leaned back, placing a hand on the bed behind her for balance, "What are you going to do with this newfound freedom?"

Lana went over to sit beside her aunt, "I thought I'd get a job… something part-time. Earn some extra money so I can go travel in the summer." She glanced at Nell, gauging her reaction.

Nell looked slightly disappointed, but quickly brightened, "Well, I suppose I could always use some extra help around the shop."

That wasn't what Lana wanted, though. She wanted to _earn_ this. "Thanks," she nodded decisively, "but I'm not looking for help. I want to do this on my own."

There was hurt in her aunt's eyes, but a bit of pride, too. Nell let it go.


	15. Part 3 Chapter 2

_Part 3 Chapter 2_

Clark joined the rest of the team as they headed out onto the football field, slowing as he saw the line of practicing cheerleaders.

Lana was not among them.

Slightly concerned, Clark turned to Pete. "Have you seen Lana?"

Pete glanced at the field, "No… but there's your dad," he indicated the man sitting in the bleachers with his elbows on his knees.

Clark redirected his walk, "Dad… I'm glad you're here. It means a lot to me."

His response was not what Clark had hoped for. "I still don't support your decision, Clark. I'm here to see that no one gets hurt."

That stung.

Before Clark could begin to formulate a reply, he heard Whitney—team captain—calling. "Hustle it up, guys, come on!"

He backed away from his father, hurt in his eyes, and started to turn to where Whitney had called.

"Come on, line it up!"

"Kent!" came Coach Walt's voice, "Get in there at tailback!"

Clark sped up to a jog, trying to put his father's words out of his mind.

Back in the stands, Jonathan Kent felt a tremor of guilt for his harsh words, but he pushed it aside firmly. He had made the right decision. He would _not_ feel bad about it.

Not three minutes later, Clark was sent to the ground by a combined tackle he could easily have thrown off, knocked down and mocked for the apparent 'weakness', never mind that it was four on one.

That little bit of guilt welled up again as Clark glanced in his direction before being rudely shouted at "Kent!" even from the stand's Jonathan could hear Coach Walt's demanding near-snarl, "Quit looking in the stands! Your dad's not coaching this team; I am!"

Clark was rudely hauled to his feet by his face shield, "I didn't bring you out here to be a tackling dummy! Get angry, kick some butt!"

Clark knew better than to get angry, and Lex's caution rang in his head over his father's words. _Your dad's right about one thing… you need to be careful._

But maybe if he let himself _think_ at superspeed…

"All right, guys, same play."

Clark waited.

"Blue 32! Blue 32!"

Play begun.

Clark got the ball, charged forward, carefully—carefully—there. He slipped between two of the yellow-jersey'd 'opposing team' like a ghost, reaction time held to something potentially human. Ducked a shoulder, using his forward momentum rather than his strength to trip another, though it slowed him.

Four—he could jump them, but that was pushing the bounds of believability—he stopped dead, sidestepped, twisted around the combined tackle, and restarted. A move more out of ballet than football, but it worked and was human… potentially. Poured on _just_ enough speed to stay ahead of those behind him zagged sideways as he sensed the shift and watched a tackle land beside rather than on him… and crossed the goal line, careful to breathe hard.

Knelt, rubbing at his calf as though he'd strained something. Believable.

But it all felt empty without his father's approval.

"Yeah, Kent, that's what I'm talking about!" Coach Walt called from the middle of the field.

"I don't know what that was, but way to go, Kent!"

Jonathan got up and left the stands. Clark watched him go, bitterly disappointed.

_xxxx_

Walt watched the video of Clark Kent on the field, examining the boy's apparent strengths and weaknesses, already planning how best to use him during Friday's game.

Principal Kwan coming to stand in his doorway interrupted his thoughts. "Ah," he said, offering a half-smile, as he picked up the remote and turned off the TV. "How's my favorite football fan?"

"Coach," Kwan began without preamble, "one of the players accused of cheating has come forward and said _you_ supplied them with the tests."

Despite the sudden accusation, Walt wasn't worried. Angry, but not worried. "Oh," he nodded slightly, "And what boy told you that little piece of fiction?"

Kwan saw the anger and recognized it for what it was, "I'm not at liberty to say."

Walt pointed the remote in Kwan's direction, "I'm guessing you already went to the school board and asked them to suspend me."

"You have a lot of friends in high places," Kwan nearly spat.

Walt laughed, "I should have! I _coached_ most of them," he gestured grandly, a broad smile on his face at his victory, "You don't understand! I'm an institution. Who'd you think the school board was gonna believe? Some cheating little brat who was just trying to cover his own ass," the smile faded to a grimace of anger, "or the man who's been leading this school to victory for twenty-five years?"

Kwan leaned across the desk, unintimidated, "They may not believe one," he stated, "but if I can get _all_ of them to step forward… the board will have no choice. They'll suspend you from coaching for the rest of your life."

Walt surged to his feet, anger scalding beneath his skin, "You will _not_ bring me down!" he snapped, slamming his hand down across the desk—and the TV, incidentally in line with where his fingers pointed, burst into flame.

Both Walt and Kwan stared at the burning television for several seconds, then Walt began to see _possibilities._ Kwan, on the other hand…

"What the hell is going on here, Coach?" he demanded, a trace of fear in his voice. He quickly decided that staying in a room with a flaming TV was a bad idea and picked up his briefcase before all but fleeing the room.

Even Kwan knew when to be afraid.

Principal Kwan left the building, heading for his car in the early dark, not noticing the parted blinds on a certain room behind him, or the look of concentration on the watcher's face.

"Who the hell does he think he is?" Walt asked himself furiously, focusing his rage on the vehicle Kwan had just entered.

The steering wheel lit up, soon followed by Kwan's briefcase and the remainder of the interior of the car, trapping Kwan inside.

_xxxx_

"Where'd your dad go?" Pete asked curiously as he and Clark left the school building.

Clark tilted his head in a half-shrug, "He kinda had to get back to the farm."

Then they heard the starting screams.

Clark's eyes picked out the burning car well before Pete's, but he dared not show his powers in front of the other teen, "Go get help!" he ordered, dropping his backpack.

Pete ran inside to do as he was told and Clark ran over to the car, smashed the window in before he realized that the man inside—Principal Kwan—had just lost consciousness from the smoke. He ripped the door off its hinges and tossed it aside, picking up Kwan in a fireman's carry and moving as fast as he dared with the possibility of the man regaining consciousness once he was out in clean air.

Behind him, the car exploded, knocking him off his feet and making him drop the still-unconscious principal to the ground. Clark rolled to cover the smaller body with his own, guarding from flaming debris, and locked his gaze on the burning remains of Kwan's car.

That had been _far_ too close.

_xxxx_

Clark only picked at his food as he listened to his mother talking on the phone.

"OK, thanks, b-bye," she said finally before hanging up.

Clark _hadn't_ listened in on both sides of the conversation, though he'd almost been tempted to, more absorbed in keeping a subtle eye on his father, trying to get a sense of the man's mood.

"Principal Kwan's going to be in the hospital 'till over the weekend," Martha announced as she returned to the dining room.

Clark's focus changed, "Is he gonna be all right?"

"He's got some burns," Martha glanced back and forth between her two boys, sensing the lingering tension, "and suffered smoke inhalation, but he's gonna be OK." She looked at Jonathan and his still-lowered head, anxious.

"Did anybody see you, son?" he asked finally, still not looking up.

Martha's expression darkened slightly at the very thought and she glanced to her son, worried.

"Nobody saw me, Dad," he assured, almost defensive before he remembered that once, he _had_ been seen. Sort-of, anyway—Lex had seen him get hit, not the rescuing. "And I told the paramedics that I wrapped my hands in my jacket when I pulled him out," he added, as further reassurance.

Jonathan nodded slightly, appeased.

"It was lucky you were there," Martha said gently.

Clark tempered his retort with a half-smile, "I missed my ride."

Jonathan shook his head, "Look, I saw you play, all right?" he pushed back from the table and stood, "And you could have easily hurt any one of those boys."

"I was _careful,_ Dad. I _didn't,_" he stood to follow his father to the kitchen, hesitating to glance back at his mother, "Why are we even having this conversation? No one got hurt."

Upon Jonathan's refusal to acknowledge anything he'd just said, he decided to goad the man a bit. "By the way," Clark straightened with an almost smug smile, "Coach gave me your old position."

Jonathan turned a sharp gaze at his son.

"You're looking at the starting tailback of this Friday's game," he finished, refusing to be cowed by the dark glare.

As there was still no response past Jonathan brushing past him, Clark gave up. "Don't everyone congratulate me at one," he muttered.

Martha opened her mouth as though to say something when Clark glanced at her, then settled for a helpless shrug before going after Jonathan as Clark headed for his room, defeated.

"How did he get to be so stubborn?" Jonathan asked his wife.

"Gee, I dunno," Martha walked past, aiming for the table.

"Hey, wait a minute," Jonathan trotted after her, "I was _not_ like that when I was his age."

"No," Martha stated sarcastically as she sat, "You were the obedient son who _always_ obeyed his father and _didn't_ run away one summer and try out for the Metropolis Sharks."

Jonathan gave his wife a _look._ "Since when did you go and join the other side?"

"Jonathan," Martha's voice gentled, "Clark hasn't been able to do anything _normal_ his whole life. No play groups, no Little League—all because we were afraid he might hurt somebody."

Jonathan rubbed a hand over his face.

"He's a _teenager_ now. Let's give him a shot."

"His gifts come with responsibilities," Jonathan said tiredly.

"This isn't about his gifts," Martha lowered her voice, though Clark would still be able to hear if he wanted to, "it's about his judgment. You're telling Clark that you don't believe in him."

"Of _course_ I believe in him," Jonathan ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, "What if he makes a mistake and somebody suspects the truth?" He shook his head. "I do _not_ want anyone coming on this farm and taking our son away from us."

Martha half nodded, half shook her head, "Well, if we don't start trusting him, nobody will have to take him away—he's gonna _leave_ all by himself."

_xxxx_

"You guys, it doesn't make any sense," Chloe stated as they headed towards the Beanery, the local coffee shop. "Cars don't just spontaneously combust."

"The cops said it was faulty wiring," Clark pointed out.

Chloe was undeterred, "I've already got my headline: 'Jockstrap Saves Principal from Burning Car!'"

Pete grimaced, "Will you lay off the 'jockstraps' thing?"

"I still can't believe that Clark's been blinded by the Friday night lights," Chloe laughed as they entered the Beanery.

"I joined a football team, not a cult," Clark protested.

Chloe's amusement didn't falter, "Next thing you know, I'm going to be joining the pom-pom brigade."

"I hear there's a spot open," the waitress passing by added in.

"Lana," Clark straightened, surprised, "What are you doing here?"

"Taking your order, I hope," Lana said wryly as she picked up a tray with a few coffee cups on it.

"Wha—wha—what is this?" Chloe sputtered, "Some sort of, like, cheerleading charity, like, be-a-waitress-for-a-night sort of thing?" she followed Lana to the table she was serving, baffled, trailing Clark and Pete.

"Yes it is," Lana stated, "except for the cheerleading and charity parts." She set her tray down on a table, "And tips are always appreciated."

"So… you're a waitress for real?" Clark asked.

"Even got the perky nametag to prove it," Lana gestured to said nametag with a half-smile.

"First day?" Pete asked.

"Ever," Lana agreed.

"Where's your necklace?" Clark asked, having noticed the lack of its debilitating effects.

"Strict dress code," Lana explained, "No jewelry and no open-toed shoes."

"You look very…" Clark sought the right word, "waitresslike."

Lana gave a brief laugh, Now, if only I could tell the difference between a half-caf decaf and a nonfat latte."

"In that case, I'll have a regular coffee," Chloe called after her as she started to leave.

"Hey," Pete added, "Times three."

Lana nodded to show she had heard and continued up to the front while the three friends selected a table to sit at.

Clark spotted her tray and picked it up, turning to head up front, "Uh, Lana, you forgot this."

The girl was somewhere between mortified and grateful, "Thanks. That's been happening a lot today."

"First days are always rough," Clark said, by way of encouragement. "So you just… quit cheerleading?"

"You sound surprised," Lana tilted her head.

"Well, it's not like you… broke any state laws or anything, but I am," Clark admitted. "You always seemed so happy doing it."

"My mom was a cheerleader," Lana explained, "So was my aunt. I figured it was time to break the vicious cycle."

Clark smiled at her slight laugh, then asked a question before he could stop himself. "What did Whitney say?"

"You're his teammate now," Lana teased, unoffended, "Why don't you ask him?"

"You know, it's amazing," Clark stated, "The same day I make the team, you quit the squad. I was just hoping we'd see more of each other."

Lana smiled, I have four shifts a week. Stop by anytime you like."

"Lana," another voice called irritably, "Table three has been waiting for their drinks for five minutes. If they go cold, it's coming out of your tips."

Lana glanced up at her supervisor as Clark winced guiltily for keeping her, "Right. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just be faster."

Back at the table, Chloe stared at Pete as though he could answer some great question of the universe. "Clark Kent is a football player and Lana Lang is a waitress." She stated, trying out the sound of the words.

Pete sort-of shrugged, "What's the matter with that?"

"Nothing," Chloe shook herself, "I just want to click my heels and get back to reality."

Pete was about to respond when something caught his attention. He nodded to the jock coming in and heading over to where the other six of those caught cheating were seated.

Chloe followed his gaze.

The newcomer said something in a low voice, and the others got up to follow him out the door.

That sparked Chloe's attention and she glanced at Pete, "What's up with your fallen brethren?"

"I don't know," Pete admitted.

Chloe stood abruptly, "I'll see you tomorrow," she called as she gathered her things, not even waiting for her coffee.

"Chloe..?" Clark asked as she brushed past him.

"Oh, uh, relax. I'll see you tomorrow, OK?"

Lana lost her balance as Chloe rushed past and bumped into a man on her other side, causing her to lose hold of her tray. It crashed to the ground, spilling coffee all over the aisle.

Clark offered a helpless shrug as several of the patrons started clapping.

_xxxx_

Chloe followed the disgraced jocks to the football field, careful to stay out of sight (and range of the sprinklers).

"Congratulations," Coach Walt snarled, "I've never seen a group of young men demonstrate such _extraordinary_ stupidity! Now, which one of you talked?"

None of the seven would look at him.

"Huh? No one here told Kwan that I supplied you with that test?"

Finally one of the boys spoke up, "Coach, no college is even gonna look at us with cheating on our record."

"So it was you, huh, Trevor?" Walt asked the boy, voice almost gentle before it changed to a growl, as he backhanded the boy across the face, "Now, why doesn't that surprise me?"

The running sprinklers suddenly lit aflame, sending jets of heat and light across the field.

Coach Walt was the only one unaffected by the display, "Nothing, Nothing! Is gonna stand between me and my legacy!" his voice rose to a shout, his rage urging the flames higher, "Now, you go home and you keep your mouths shut, understand!?"

They understood.

Chloe snapped a picture.

_xxxx_


	16. Part 3 Chapter 3

_Part 3 Chapter 3_

Lex _almost_ jumped when the doors to his office slammed open and his father strode in, hair flying with each firm step. He tossed a paper onto his son's desk, "Congratulations, Lex, you made the business page for once."

The sarcasm was not lost on _this_ audience. Lex raised a nonexistent eyebrow, picking up the paper and gesturing with it, "I told Dominic I was doing this two days ago."

"Yes, and my drone dutifully reported it to me," Lionel agreed, somehow giving his beard the impression of frowning. "I just didn't think you'd be stupid enough to implement it."

Lex shook his head a little, "If you had a problem with it why didn't you pick up the phone and call me?"

"We have a reporting structure. Just because you're my son, don't expect any special treatment."

Lex snorted, "Believe me, I never have."

Lionel's temper sparked, "That wounded pride routine may have worked on your mother," he strode around the desk aggressively, moving to use his standing-height advantage against his still-sitting son, "but don't try it on me."

Lex smothered another snort—he hadn't been _trying_ anything. It had been a simple statement of fact. He leaned his head back slightly to avoid his father's attempt to touch his cheek.

"You know perfectly well how I feel about you," Lionel's voice gentled.

"Hence I'm at a crap factory in Smallville," Lex sniped before wincing internally. Careful, he cautioned himself. He didn't really want to leave, not anymore.

"Lex," Lionel began, "Did you know the Caesars would send their sons to the furthermost corners of the empire so they could get an appreciation of how the world works?"

Lex sighed. He'd known that perfectly well, and known his father would point it out. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Dad." He glanced up at the man, who looked away.

"All right," Lionel decided, moving across the office to grab a fencing foil, "here's how I propose we solve our impasse…" he ran his hand down the weapon and gave it a few practice swings before smiling in satisfaction, "We'll fence for it." He turned to face his son, "If you win, and I'll let you pursue your plan. If _I_ win, you _fire_ twenty percent of your work force."

"The question you have to ask yourself, Lex, is… are you good enough to take your old man?"

Despite misgivings, Lex agreed. He'd been doing a lot of practice lately, and while Heike always kicked his ass, she was better than his father.

Lex had to wonder if he was, too.

Less than half an hour later, they were dancing across the floor of the office, each motion punctuated by the clash of steel.

Lionel's form was better, but Lex held more fury and was driving the man back. He knew within moments of starting that his father was better in the long run and he had to overwhelm him quickly if he wanted to win.

Lionel rolled back over the pool table and decided to taunt his son, "Look at your move, Lex. They're rash, no thought of the consequences."

Oh, that wasn't true. He knew the consequences, all right. He also knew he had to keep attacking if he wanted to beat his father, who apparently wanted to turn this into a business lesson.

"If I wanted a running commentary, I'd buy one of your books on tape," Lex retorted, less out of breath than his father.

"You know what your problem is?"

"Enlighten me," Lex spread his arms sarcastically before resuming a defensive stance.

"You're ruled by your emotions. You always have been." Lionel had bought the chance to regroup with his words and while using them as a distraction, disarmed his son, placing his sword at the younger man's throat, "And that _can_ be a fatal blow."

Lex cursed himself for falling for that. He could have won if he'd pressed his advantage while he had it.

"I want those workers gone by noon tomorrow." He tapped Lex's chest with the blade, "Meeting adjourned."

Lex snarled silently at his father's retreating back.

_xxxx_

Clark examined his football-uniform clad reflection in the full-length mirror leaning against the wall of the loft, not quite satisfied with his appearance, but uncertain what caused his dissatisfaction.

He glanced up as his mother walked up the stairs.

"Heading out to the pep rally?" she asked.

Clark nodded, "How do I look?"

"As handsome as your father," she smiled.

Clark sighed, "You don't have to do this, Mom."

"Do what?"

"Play Kent Family Peacekeeper."

Martha smiled a bit, "If the Kent men weren't so stubborn, I wouldn't have to," she pointed out.

Clark shifted a bit, wary, "So you're taking Dad's side?"

It was Martha's turn to sigh, "No, Clark, I'm not. I told him he's being unreasonable."

Clark smiled, "Thanks."

"Well, I'm not saying you're entirely innocent here, either," she pointed out, "If you want to make your own decision, you have to be prepared to live with the consequences."

"You trust me, don't you?" Clark asked suddenly, feeling uncertain.

"I want to Clark. So does your Dad. Just… give him a chance."

_xxxx_

_Sorry for both the shortness of the chapter and the delay in getting it out. However, my Dad was in and out of the hospital for a while (he's doing much better, now), and then a friend of mine was killed in a car crash… and I just haven't had the heart to write for a while. I'm trying to get back into it, though._

_And thanks to Jonny Bravo J for the scripts suggestion, as I had to send back the disc… I never would have finished this chapter without it, much less been able to start the next one._

_The story should deviate a little more from Cannon next episode. It'll deviate a bit (some Lex interaction within the next few chapters) but not a whole bunch this episode. There isn't a lot of room for me to work Lex in, and as other variables remain the same… well, the deviations will grow as time passes, but some things will remain the same._


End file.
